Chapter Fifty-Eight: Phobos Malfoy, Russian Czar
"This is a dream," Hermione said, "isn't it?"
She looked around at the fair skinned blond haired man and the dark haired dark skinned women who were sitting in front of her in the forest, both wearing familiar robes.
"Hey," Hermione said, when they clasped hands and ignored her, "I've seen you two before."
"Have you?" the man said, not looking at her.
The moon shone on all three of them an eerie blue.
"Yes," Hermione said, "at the battle. When the army of ghosts was there. That was you two, wasn't it? You were nodding at me."
"Well you did a good job," the man shrugged, still looking at the edge of the forest, "for all you don't look as good in those robes as Violet."
"Gryffindors," the woman sighed, "you have absolutely no manners."
"They are faded though," Hermione said with a frown, looking down at herself. Her robes were identical to the woman—Violet—except they were frayed and worn, faded and stained with blood. Violet's were pristine.
"It's this new fangled thing called aging," the man said cheerfully, "all the rage."
"You're insufferable," Violet murmured, but she was biting back a laugh.
"So who are you?" Hermione asked, "is this a dream?"
"You spend months doing this," the man said, "and you're confused?"
"Dream walking," Hermione confirmed, "but you're dead. How is that possible?"
"I thought you said she was clever, William," the woman said, "but I told you. She's a Gryffindor."
"Hey," the man—William—and Hermione said together.
"Am I near your graves, is that it?" Hermione persisted, despite the insult, "or is it the robes? I suppose it's the robes. Do you bother Riddle like this, or Harry and Brigitte?"
After all, as far as Hermione knew, they all still had their own copies of the robes, Harry's and Brigitte's perhaps a little older, due to the fact that those robes had been rotting in Borgin and Burkes another fifty years after Hermione and Riddle had gotten theirs in the alternate world.
"I hope you haunt Riddle," she said with relish.
"We're not haunting you," Violet sniffed, "heavens, no. How dreadful."
"Riddle then," Hermione said, "haunt him. He's got it coming. I assure you."
"Does he?" The man said, "or did he kill your Dark Lord?"
Hermione seethed. Were even ghosts under Riddle's sexual spell? What was she saying. She knew they were. The Grey Lady was proof enough.
"Well I don't know if I'm under any sexual spell," the man said cheerfully, scratching his nose as he continued to stare at the forest, "aside from Violet's, of course."
"William," the woman hissed.
"It's okay," Hermione said, "this is the new millenium. Sex doesn't faze me."
"We know," the man snickered, "anyway, you're the one under his sexual spell, no?"
"No," Hermione yelped, "we've never-no! He's disgusting!" Just because she'd thought about him a few times when she was with Blaise, and okay, that one time with Phobos when she had been kind of drunk...
"Oh yeah," the man laughed, "disgusting."
"Are you reading my mind?" Hermione demanded.
"No, you're muttering out loud," the man informed her, "you should really get that checked out by someone."
"Oh, shut up," Hermione groused.
"Stop tormenting the poor child," Violet said, sounding irritated and amused all at once, and unfortunately, Hermione could relate to feeling that way over a boy.
At the edge of the forest, a purple unicorn foal picked its way through the gloom. Hermione sucked in a breath.
"So what's this all about, then?" she said, when no one seemed inclined to explain, "why are you dream walking with me? Should I destroy the robes? Should I take them from Riddle, so he doesn't have power?"
"He doesn't have power without you," Violet said cryptically.
Dread sunk a pit into Hermione's stomach. Was this what she had been worried about, all along? The robes had been held for Riddle for ages, for the right woman. What did that mean? Had she done something disastrous by helping Riddle get them?
"Isn't it obvious?" the man said.
"I told you," the woman retorted, as the unicorn foal came closer, "Gryffindor."
"She's a really clever Gryffindor though," the man argued, "even by your standards, Vi."
"So much cleverer than you, William," the woman retorted.
"You two are beyond irritating, you know that?" Hermione said exasperated.
"So we've been told," the woman said, hiding another laugh.
"Are you a Slytherin, then?" Hermione said to Violet, "is that why Riddle needed me? A Gryffindor and a Slytherin?"
"You ask the wrong questions," the man repeated.
"Then explain," Hermione said, "stop wasting my time!"
"Yes, you've got that busy lying on a chair and reading the same books over and over again to get back to," the woman said caustically, "however did we forget?"
"Oh, you're definitely a Slytherin," Hermione confirmed. She felt sickened. Was her horrible hunch true? Had Riddle chosen her to wear the robes with him because he felt a romantic connection to her? Harry had chosen Brigitte for his, after all, and they'd ended up shagging. Allegedly.
"Or maybe," Violet said, as he unicorn reached the circle they all sat crossed legged in, "he chose you because you felt a romantic connection to him."
"No," Hermione said, gone white from blood loss, "I—I don't. I hate him."
There was a beat, then the other two laughed, still not looking at her.
"Now who's tormenting her, Violet?" the man snickered.
"You love each other," Hermione said, voicing her darkest fear, "that's what this is. Does he love me? He says he does. That's why he chose me to share the power of the robes?" Her voice was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. Why couldn't she make it stop?
"Because you want to know the answer," William supplied, "and you're afraid of it at the same time. Really, stop muttering, my dear. It makes you look quite mad."
"Does he?" Hermione said, her body now shaking, "Does he love me? I think he's a liar." The unicorn approached, bowing its head.
"He is a liar," Violet confirmed, "but not about this."
"What?" Hermione whispered, "he loves me?"
"No, he's lying," William contradicted, "he doesn't love her."
"That's true," Violet agreed," and Hermione felt like she'd been stabbed with the unicorn's horn, "he doesn't love her. Because he can't."
The Alternative Universe of Phobos Malfoy, 1947
"Hermione!" Ginny said, her voice a squeak of surprise, and then they were hugging, "what are you doing here? Are you coming to try to drag me back?"
"No," Hermione said, feeling guilty, for in truth she'd not even thought of Ginny, or Sam, or Tim Summerby, or Parvati Patil, or any of the others who'd jumped dimensions for a fresh start. She certainly had no intentions of dragging them back to her own horrible reality.
She knew how they felt, after all, at least a little. She'd done things under her own Oblivius Mutus that haunted her. The way she'd fallen so easily, so stupidly for Riddle. She'd always thought she was smarter than that, but all he'd removed was her memory of Voldemort, and she'd been half in love with him. Well. Was there a point in lying to herself? She hadn't been half in love with Riddle. She'd been fully in love with him. And for that, she couldn't ever forgive him.
"I understand why you needed to get away," Hermione added, for it was true. Dougal stepped forward to hug her next in the foyer of the Malfoy family's third nicest manor, designated the home of the lesser Malfoys like Phobos's family, descended from the third son.
"Hello, Dougal," Hermine said, "I'm so proud of you becoming an Auror."
"That's why I did it," Dougal drawled, "I thought to myself, what will make Granger proud? Well then I have to do it, even if I'm miserable, because it's what she would—"
"I see you've grown as a person," Hermione said, not able to hold in her grin.
She'd done it. She'd come back to the past. It would be a brief trip, she'd promised herself, no matter how tempting it would be to escape to a world where her parents were going to live and grow old together, a world without Riddle, a world where Harry Potter had both his parents to raise him.
"I did that for you, too," Dougal drawled, "and the hope you'd find out four years later and be proud of me. Every day I woke up, saying, what would Granger do? And then I did it."
"Oh shut up, you twat," Phobos said.
"I see you jumped dimensions for a one man bachelor party," Dougal said, raising a pale brow, as in the background the marble and silver of the third nicest Malfoy manor still gleaned ridiculously, "have you come to your senses now?"
"No," Phobos said, short, "I'm going to break it off with Victoria."
Really, Hermione shouldn't be happy about that. They'd agreed to shag a few more times for fun if they felt like it, sure, but they both knew this wouldn't work out. Not ever. They'd promised.
"That's what I meant," Dougal said, and then he smiled a rare smile, "good show, Granger. I knew you'd come through."
"I told you she was a pale shadow of Hermione," Ginny said grumpily.
She was wearing the nicest robes Hermine had ever seen on her, her hair and makeup flawless, the color back in her face, the light back in her eyes. Even though she knew Fred and George would never forgive her if they found out, she wouldn't attempt to drag Ginny away from the only place that made her whole again. She wouldn't even suggest it to her. But there was something else she needed from Ginny, other than her return to Hermione's reality. Something of monumental importance.
"Yes well, you were right," Phobos said, smiling at Hermione. She felt a twist in her chest. She couldn't lead on Phobos, too. Not after what she'd done to Blaise. She'd been clear on what she'd be giving Phobos, and what she couldn't. She'd been more than clear. But then again, she'd been clear to Blaise as well, hadn't she?
"Just give mother time to get over the shame," Dougal said, looking between them, "before you announce you're marrying a Muggle-born."
"We're not getting married," Hermione and Phobos said together in unison.
"They're just shagging," Ginny said, rolling her eyes, "honestly, Dougal. Haven't I taught you anything?"
"I'm learning," Dougal said indignantly, "aren't I? This is feninists, is it? A girl shagging a bloke outside of marriage?"
"Feminism," Hermione and Ginny said together, irritated.
"And no," Ginny scolded, "I mean, kind of. But no."
"Are you teaching them about women's rights and sexual freedom, Ginny?'' Hermione said, her mouth twitching against a laugh. It was more than a bit amusing to travel to a 1940's wizarding England where the Malfoys were paragons of women's rights.
"Marlene likes it," Dougal shrugged, "father less so, but he can piss off."
"I bet she does," Phobos muttered.
"Anyway, I'm not staying," Hermione said, carefully not looking at Phobos, "I'm here on a mission."
"Again?" Dougal said warily, "do I have to jump dimensions to help you save your world, a second time?"
"No," Hermione assured him, "but I do need your help here."
"Does it involve screwing up Riddle's life?" Ginny asked.
"Funny enough," Hermione said, "it does."
"Well I'm in," Dougal said at once.
"So am I," Phobos said unnecessarily.
"Screw up Riddle's life?" Ginny repeated, "Make him miserable? that's all you had to say."
A Series of Events in Which Hermione Messes with Tom M. Riddle
"Hello Belinda," Hermione said, purposely using the same cloying falsely sweet tones the niece of Grindelwald was so fond of, "nice to see you. The robes suit you."
Belinda glared up at her. Aside from the Azkaban prison robe, she looked remarkably the same, like the dementors hadn't affected her at all, just like Phobos had said. The other prisoners suffered day after day, screaming themselves into madness, dying in droves, but Belinda was still Belinda. Monstrously evil, vindictive, cruelly clever, yet sane. Ish. But why?
"You look like hell," Belinda said, her voice deeper and more real, "you've gone all grey and skinny, and you still haven't learned what to do with your hair. You have bags under your eyes like you haven't been sleeping. Tell me, has Riddle finally left you?"
"Oh, I'm so glad you brought him up," Hermione said, grinning.
"Headmaster," Hermione said, sitting down in the chair she'd grown so familiar with, "thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to see me."
"Not at all, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, the portrait of Dippet, who'd retired but not yet died nodding along, "not after all you've done for us."
"All I've…?" Hermione was mystified. From her perspective, she'd shown up like a tornado and gotten people killed.
"Ah," Dumbledore said, that wise look over his glasses so familiar, even if it wasn't her Dumbledore and he was fifty years younger. "I see. You think you've done nothing good with your journey. That is why you look so tormented."
"Well, I didn't," Hermione said, "I got Igneus killed, and Dorcas, and Thaddeus Nott, and Isaac Rosier. Thaddeus Nott had a son in my world. He helped save us, in the battle. Now he doesn't exist."
"Herbert Higgins," Dumbledore said.
"Er, what?" Hermione said, playing with a stray loose thread on her dowdy tweed skirt she'd packed for this trip. It made her feel like McGonagall. From the nineties. When McGonagall had been pushing seventy.
"Herbert Higgins was a ten year old Muggle-born," Dumbledore said, "he was raised by a single mother who had no magical ability and worked as a nurse to support herself and her young son. Herbert Higgins died horribly, and alone, while his mother was working in the hospital nearby with cancer patients. He burned to death in a fire started by wand fight amongst Aurors and Grindelwald supporters. He was found and identified by Muggle policeman only by his teeth, and the remains of his favorite teddy bear that he was holding."
Hermione's chest was in her throat. The portraits started at them avidly.
"That was in your reality, of course," Dumbledore said, "in mine, Herbert Higgins is doing splendidly. Two years after he was supposed to die and didn't, he got his Hogwarts letter and I personally went to speak to him and his mother, who was ecstatic at the thought of her son getting a remarkable education for free. He was sorted into Hufflepuff, and is a particularly adept Charms student, and a popular member of the gobstones club."
Tears had spring to Hermione's eyes.
"Why are you telling me this?" she said.
"I should think it was obvious," Dumbledore said gently, "Herbert Higgins lived because I fought Grindelwald and defeated him years earlier than I did in your reality, because of you. He wasn't the only one, Hermione. There were hundreds more. Thousands."
"But what about the ones I killed by coming here?" Hermione said, "that shouldn't have died. Not just Igneus and Dorcas and Rosier and Nott. The supporters of Grindelwald."
"Child murderers and dark sorcerers," Dumbledore said, "I wouldn't cry over them, Miss Granger. In your reality they went on to do more horrible things before being killed by Aurors or rotting in Azkaban for a few years before going mad. No loss there. As for your classmates, that was a horrible accident, yes. Tragic. Dorcas lived for three more decades in your time, and fought the good fight. But she died the same way. Killed by Voldemort, a dark magic user whom she fought. Here, she was killed by Belinda, a dark magic user whom she fought. Awful, but we know this was how Dorcas wanted to die, fighting evil. Four deaths, for how many thousands of lives, Hermione?"
"No one should play god," Hermione said, not daring to let herself feel her burden of guilt lift. She didn't deserve it.
"Did you?" Dumbledore said, "did you pick and choose who was to die?"
"No," Hermione said reluctantly.
"Then how did you play god?" Dumbledore pointed out.
Hermione was stumped. "How do you know all this?" she asked instead, "how can you possibly know all this?"
"Ah," Dumbledore said, and now it was his turn to look guilty. "Well, I'm afraid I'm too curious for my own good, Miss Granger. Curious, a hint arrogant, and a little paranoid. I have the books on time travel, you know. So sometimes…"
"You visit my reality," Hermione said, "does anyone know?"
"Aberforth," Dumbledore said, guilty, "I'm afraid I enjoy my brother not hating me a little too much to stop my visits."
"No luck with this one, here, huh?" Hermione said wryly.
"He did thaw a little toward me when I started my organization for the children," Dumbledore said, "and he even wrote me an owl when Hagrid's name was cleared. He only called me a meddling narcissist once, so it was an improvement."
Hermione had heard all about Dumbledore's little organization, and it was wonderful, and it also made her a little uneasy, no matter how much Ginny had enthused over it.
"He's not bloody Riddle, Hermione," Ginny had spat, "it's Dumbledore."
"I've heard good things," Hermione said cautiously, thinking of the collection of mostly misfit children Dumbledore was mentoring and sometimes financially supporting.
"Yes, well," Dumbledore shrugged modestly, "you're not the only one who needs to atone."
Hermione didn't know what that meant, nor was she sure she wanted to. Dumbledore, it seemed, felt like he had to tell her.
"I should've fought Grindelwald earlier," he said heavily, "in your time. And in this time. But I was a coward. I didn't want to face a terrible truth from my past. We were friends, you see, Grindelwald and I."
"What?" Hermione said, blinking rapidly.
"Yes," Dumbledore said, "and more then that, from my end at least." Hermine's mouth dropped open and she shut it hastily again. "so you see, Miss Granger, I understand what it's like to love a monster."
"What?" Hermione squeaked.
"And how it's hard to fight one. I see Mr. Riddle is lying dormant in your world."
"But ready to strike at any moment," Hermione mumbled, face red, "I don't love him, for the record."
"Ah," Dumbledore said, peering through her with those blue eyes, "because how could you? How could you, when you're so moral and kind and honest and on the side of the righteous? Am I right?"
"Yes," Hermione said mutinously, "you think you understand but you don't. You might've loved a monster, but I never could."
Dumbledore peered at her more but she started belligerently back.
"That's good to hear," he said finally.
"Yes, it is," Hermione snapped.
"You might be pleased to hear, then, that I've taken steps to be sure Mr. Riddle will never return to his old tricks here," Dumbledore said, watching her closely still.
"So have I," Hermione blustered, "In my world. That's why I'm here, after all. I told you." It was only later that she realized she hadn't muttered some inner thought in front of Dumbledore. Not once.
"So you said, "Dumbledore said, "but while you're here, Miss Granger, maybe contemplate the good you've done, and let yourself forgive a little bit."
"I'm not forgiving Riddle," Hermione snarled "no way."
"Not him," Dumbledore said gently, "yourself. Lemon drop?"
"Hermione," Estelle drawled, "long time no see. And the seeing is awful, Granger, you look wretched."
Good to see you too," Hermione beamed, throwing her arms around the cantankerous Slytherin girl, who had taken their years apart to grow more beautiful as Hermione grew more haggard.
"You look like shite," Patrick Black said bluntly, ushering her inside number 12 after he pried her off Estelle. Next to him, his new wife sniffed.
"Don't swear, Patrick," Ethelinda said, "it's vulgar."
Patrick and Estelle both rolled their eyes.
"I do look like shite though," Hermione agreed, "it's true."
"Phobos," Estelle demanded, "aren't you feeding the poor girl? And letting her sleep?"
A shadow of a smirk crossed Phobos's face at that last, and Hermione knew he was picturing their last night in his bed just like she was. Well, he'd definitely crossed a few more fantasies about Hermione off of his list.
"It's not my fault she's so skinny," he said instead, "it's not like I've been gone for years, you know."
"Well, who can tell with time travel," Patrick shrugged, "it's only been four days since we've seen you, after all."
"More than that for you," Estelle said, glaring at Hermione as Kreacher bowed, ushering them into the drawing room.
"What's that look for? "Hermione said, hurt.
The night before she'd met with the old Gryffindor crew, plus Brock. Marlene had insisted on throwing her a party, and they'd all peppered her with questions about her life and Evelyn and Brigitte and Hermione had smiled and laughed and been shocked at how tall Philippe and Christoph were, how low their voices had gotten, and ached inside to rejoin this world, where people liked her and kissed her and her life wasn't a total disaster. But perhaps Estelle had been hurt, and heard about it. They'd all agreed on no Slytherins, aside from Phobos and Dougal, who were almost honorary Slytherins at this point. And then this morning, Hermione had had the first crucial meeting with Parvati and Malcolm and Sam and the others, taking notes furiously all the while. But Estelle definitely wouldn't have wanted to join that. Right?
"You were supposed to come back at once," Estelle said, nettled, "you were supposed to miss us terribly. Instead you've been gone for ages, years and years, and now Phobos is engaged to some ninny who looks vaguely like you if you squint and drink wine."
"At least Victoria eats," Ethelinda sniffed, picking up a biscuit and nibbling on it.
"I eat," Hermione said, affronted, and to prove it she jammed a raspberry scone in her mouth whole. Phobos coughed to hide a laugh as both Estelle and Ethelinda closed their eyes in delicate horror.
"That's not better," Phobos said in a loud stage whisper.
"You left and never came back," Estelle said again, "you…you…"
"Bitch," Ethelinda said with relish, "you're looking for 'bitch', dear."
"Now who's swearing?" Patrick muttered, and his wife glared at him while Phobos coughed over another laugh.
"I did miss you all," Hermione sighed, her eyes wandering around the drawing room for her target. Her eyes zeroed in on a small box.
"So how does Victoria feel about your house guest?" Ethelinda said, eyeing the way Phobos was looking at Hermione with suspicion. Well. She supposed Malfoys normally didn't smile like that.
"Oh, her," Phobos said, waving a hand, "I'm going to break it off."
"Glad you came to your senses," Patrick nodded.
"Aren't we all," Estelle quipped, "so you two are getting married instead? Only, don't get married before me. And I have to approve your robes, Hermione. We can't wear anything too similar."
"Like she has your taste," Ethelinda sniffed.
"We're not getting married," Hermione and Phobos said in unison. It was not the first time. Or the fifth.
"Oh," Estelle said, looking disappointed "are you sure?"
"No, I wouldn't want to upstage your wedding to Logan Parkinson," Hermione said, waggling her eyebrows, and Estelle turned beet red.
"Don't judge me," she said, "You snogged Riddle, after all."
"Ah," Hermione said, her smile dropping off her face, "so I did." Her eyes wandered back to the box.
"Don't remind me," Phobos grumbled.
"Don't remind me," Hermione snapped, her eyes still on the box.
"What are you staring at?" Estelle frowned, turning to look where Hermione was.
"Well," Hermione said, "about that."
"How is my niece?" Gellert Grindelwald asked Hermione, leaning forward with some urgency. He got zapped with a wand from an Auror for his trouble. "Ow!"
"Excellent," Hermione said, "really excellent."
One of the Aurors behind her made a small noise of disgust, though whether it was about Belinda or Grindelwald she didn't know.
"Don't be smart," Grindelwald grumbled.
"But I'm not," Hermione assured him. Next to her, Phobos was chewing on his own tongue with rage, his arms and legs crossed tightly, most likely so he wouldn't punch Grindelwald in the face. "She's doing great. I mean she's still crazy, but not any more than she used to be."
Behind her, the Aurors shifted again. Edgewald and Oswald had wanted to come after her Ministry visit to request an audience with Grindelwald, but she knew it would be too hard for them to remain calm when Belinda and Grindelwald had killed their partner.
"Curious," Grindelwald said, "I've heard Azkaban is worse then here, as hard as that is to believe." He gestured around his tiny dank cell at the top of the tower in Nurmenguard.
"Yes, it is curious," Hermione said, "it's like the dementors don't affect her." She watched the darkest lord of all time in this world closely, but he still looked vaguely confused.
"Well, she always was special," Grindelwald said at last, as Phobos gave a tut of disgust. "And who is this?" he asked, gesturing at Phobos, "I'm surprised you didn't show up here with your special boy. That would've driven Belinda mad, you know."
Hermione felt the Aurors shift as Phobos sucked on his teeth.
Yes, I know," she said carefully, "but Riddle is gone, I don't know where. You know that."
It turned out Dumbledore had done his job so thoroughly Riddle would never be able to return. People thought he'd gone abroad, after opening the chamber and murdering Myrtle and his Muggle father and grandparents. Some thought alone, but most thought he'd gone with a harem of women: Hermione, Evelyn, and Brigitte, his dark trio of witches, as the papers called them. Others thought Riddle had killed them all and absorbed their power. Still others thought Riddle was framed, a tragic hero. It was only the combined powers of Barry Meadows, Dorcas's uncle, Edgewald, Oswald, and Dumbledore himself that Hermione was thought innocent of all wrongdoing by the Ministry.
"Do I?" Grindelwald said cynically, "how clever of me."
Hermione could feel her designated fifteen minutes slipping away. She had begged and pleaded for this much, and she had a feeling she'd get no more.
"Was Belinda always strange, as a baby?" Hermione said abruptly, "do you remember?"
"Belinda?" Grindelwald said, "but I thought we were talking about Riddle."
"Yes," Hermione said, "we are."
"I wasn't aware Tom had a cousin," Mrs. Cole said, squinting at Hermione and Phobos suspiciously, "and two of them, at that."
"Yes, well, we weren't aware of his existence either," Hermione said, trying to smile winningly, "not until recently, you see, when Granny died and told us the family er, secret."
"The strangest people always come looking for him," Mrs. Cole mumbled, as she led them to her office, unlocking the door.
Hermione looked down at herself. Well, she supposed the bright pink dress was a bit much for 1947 And Phobos had gone full Russian czar, for some reason, in his attempt to look like a Muggle.
"Meaning?" Phobos sniffed, adjusting his fur turban.
"Granny was eccentric," Hermione said hastily, "so were her daughters. Our mums and Tom's mum."
"She was odd," Mrs. Cole agreed, leading them into her office, "poor girl. So you say Tom's not dead?"
"Unfortunately," Phobos muttered, and Hermione kicked him with her sensible heel when Mrs. Cole turned to her filing cabinet.
"No," Hermione said loudly, to cover, "he's gone abroad."
"I never thought he was dead," Mrs. Cole said, turning a key, "never. Not Tom. He was too…"
"Intelligent?" Hermione said.
"Evil?" Phobos supplied, and got another kick.
"Resourceful," Mrs. Cole said, frowning, "wily. A survivor, he was. Even with those terrible grandparents of his. And that awful father."
"Oh yes?" Hermione said, trying not to sound too eager.
"Not related to you, I expect?" Mrs. Cole said sharply, turning from where she was rummaging in her files. "you said it was the mother?"
"Yes, our Granny was on the other side," Phobos lied.
"Well, that's good, because those Riddles were awful," Mrs. Cole said, "they came looking for him, once. The grandfather." She pulled out a file, and when Hermione made to reach for it, she clutched it to her chest tighter, "rich man. Like you," she said to Phobos, "not Russian though."
"Russian?" Phobos said, affronted.
"But clearly rich," Mrs. Cole continued, "and he didn't care one whit for Tom, no." She gestured for them all to sit. They sat.
"Cousin Tom said his family never came looking for him," Hermione said, "when Granny met with him," she added hastily.
"Well, we never told him, did we?" Mrs. Cole said heavily, "such a cruel thing to do. He was three. Cute as anything, too. A beautiful child, always."
Phobos snorted, then faked a cough and got another heel stomp.
"He didn't even want to look at him," Mrs. Cole said, "just asked if he was really here. But I made him look. Tom was playing outside, and his grandfather went all white. 'He looks just like him,' he said, and I thought we were going to have an adoption. I won't lie, I wanted that. Who doesn't? But then when I suggested it, he told me no. Left without meeting him and never came back."
"That's awful," Hermione said, meaning it.
"Yes," Phobos agreed, "he could've sent him to Switzerland, if he was rich. Boarding school."
"Or Russia with you," Mrs. Cole nodded, looking at his fur cape that matched the turban.
"I'm not—"
"But he did send money for over ten years," Mrs. Cole said, "as a charitable contribution to the orphanage. We needed that money, too, but it stopped around the time Tom was oh, sixteen or so."
Because he killed him, Hermione thought.
"And Rid—cousin Tom never returned?" Phobos said, "after his sixth year of schooling?"
"That's right," Mrs. Cole agreed, "and we were told he'd been adopted. But no one ever asked for any paperwork. And we always thought it was suspicious. Who adopts a sixteen-year-old?"
"Granny," Hermione said at once, smiling, "she finally found out about him."
"And she hid it from us," Phobos said, only the faintest note of rehearsal in his tone, "because of erm. The shame. She sent him to Switzerland like his other family should've."
"Then there were those news stories in the papers," Mrs. Cole added, "about him being a person of interest in a criminal case."
"Lies," Hermione said, smiling innocently, "a misunderstanding."
"Oh yes," Phobos said, less convincingly.
"Then that other article, about a year later, on how he was presumed dead," Mrs. Cole said, "dead in the war, it said."
"A mistake," Hermione said, "he was just in Switzerland, like we said."
"So why do you want his file?" Mrs. Cole asked, eyes narrowed. It seemed she was an uncommonly sharp person, just like Dumbledore had warned Hermione.
"Medical records," Hermione said at once, "shots and all that. For his health history."
"Well, I need to see proof," Mrs. Cole said, "or I can't hand anything over. You understand."
"Of course," Phobos smiled, handing over a forged document, his wand out under the desk if need be. They waited on tenterhooks, but it passed muster.
"Well," Mrs. Cole said, handing over the file, Hermione barely stopped herself from snatching it from her hands, "I hope Tom is doing better."
"Oh, much better," Phobos said, "thanks for your help."
"What do you mean, better?" Hermione said, curious.
"Well, he was always quite lonely, poor thing," Mrs. Cole said, "he must've been. No one wanted to play with him. for all he was so beautiful and clever. But he was so hard to love."
"You can say that again," Phobos said heartily. "Ow!"
"Hermione!" Hortense squealed, "you look wonderful!" Just like with Christoph and Philippe, it was odd seeing the often pigtailed Hortense all grown up.
"Er, do I?'' Hermione said, looking down at her sensible slacks and blouse. Well. She supposed sensible slacks were exciting in this era.
"And Phobos!" Hortense said, a flush in her cheeks, "you as…as well."
"Me as well what?" Phobos said blankly. He reached out to touch Hermione's back.
He'd been doing that a lot lately, and she should stop him. This wasn't permanent. They'd both promised. But it felt so nice. Hortense's eyes followed, and she went pinker.
"She's saying you look wonderful," Hermione said, a tiny blossom of suspicion rising in her.
"Ah," Phobos said, arching an eyebrow, "do I, my sweet love dumpling?"
"I do miss your ridiculous nicknames for me," Hermione said reminiscently.
"Which was your favorite?" Phobos said, as Hortense looked between them, still pink cheeked.
"Dunno, maybe precious unicorn?" Hermione suggested, testing her theory by reaching for Phobos's hand. Hortense went eggplant.
"Well, sit down, sit down," she said, gesturing at the small table in the tea shop in Diagon Alley, "I was so excited to get your owl, Phobos!"
I'll bet," Hermione muttered, and Phobos looked at her quizzically.
"I was beginning to think I did not merit an invite," Hortense said to Hermione, "everyone else was telling me you were in town, but I hadn't heard anything."
"That's because you were one of my most important meetings," Hermione said, feeling a weird pang inside of her. She'd been right, she was sure of it. Hortense had a crush on Phobos. Phobos was going to break it off with his fiancé as soon as Hermione left, so she could avoid the fight that was sure to ensue. Hortense had become rather pretty.
But there was no need for her to be so ridiculous, jealous over an eighteen year old girl.
"I missed you too," Hortense said, tears in her eyes, and Hermione felt her shame double.
"Congratulations on graduating Hogwarts," she said, "and being made Head Girl. Although no surprise there, eh?"
"I'm going into research," Hortense said excitedly, "maybe one day the Department of Mysteries, if I get lucky."
"They'll be lucky to have you," Phobos said graciously, and Hortense went pink again.
"That nice of you to say," she squeaked.
Maybe nothing would happen, Hermione thought selfishly, Phobos hadn't even noticed, after all.
"Funny you should mention research," Hermione said, "because I've got a puzzle for you."
"Oh, I love puzzles!" Hortense practically screamed.
Phobos cracked a half smile. Something jealous and evil inside Hermione screamed.
"Oh, we know," Phobos quipped.
"What was that all about, with Hortense earlier?" Phobos asked, shrugging off a robe.
"Oh, are you coming in?" Hermione said, cracking an eye open. She was in the guest bath, an enormous clawfoot tub that could fit six easily, her hair twisted on top of her head, steaming happily. "isn't your mother going to notice?"
They had been pretending for some time that Hermione was bunking in Ginny's room for old time's sake, even though Anne and Tenebris Malfoy had informed her they had many other bedrooms for her use. But in the night, Hermione would creep to Phobos's room. It was exactly what she'd expected and nothing what she expected all at once. Grey and green and blue velvet and satin and brocades, thick velvet wallpaper, shiny wood furniture, a wall of pictures and newspaper clippings and awards. The article about the heroic death of Igneus Malfoy was framed in the sitting area of the room, far away from the bed, thank Merlin. She felt guilty enough for fucking Phobos every night without Igenus's forever eighteen- year-old face staring at her. Although once he'd winked, just like Igenus, and she'd laughed.
"She hates Victoria too," Phobos informed her, shooting rose petals out of his wand and into the bath. "she pretends she doesn't, but she does."
"Why?" Hermione asked, staring, a pang inside of her. How long would she get to look at Phobos Malfoy like this? How long before she was gone forever out of his life? "isn't she everything your mother could possibly want for you? Pureblood, wealthy, polite—"
"I don't love her," Phobos said bluntly, "and she doesn't make me happy. Mother can sense it, try as I might to hide it."
"That's nice," Hermione said absently, as Phobos joined her in the rose scented water.
"What?" Phobos said, "me being engaged to a girl I don't love is—"
"No," Hermione said, "that your mother cares the most about your happiness. That's nice."
"Pretty standard, for a mother," Phobos said, drawing her to him. Hermione sighed, closing her eyes. She shouldn't want this. She shouldn't need this.
"But I need it too," Phobos said, kissing the back of her neck.
"You shouldn't," Hermione said, "we're just torturing ourselves."
"We've got ages still," Phobos argued, "Hortense thinks it will take awhile, and I'm inclined to agree. You've still got to do all those interviews, I've got to research, Hortense has got to experiment with that lavender root infusion—"
"We're just making it worse," Hermione said, "and you know it." But she pressed back against Phobos anyway, and he groaned.
"Don't think you'll distract me," he said, pulling down her hair and dunking the ends in the rose water, "I'm made of stronger stuff."
"Are you?" Hermione said, taking one of his hands and placing it on her chest.
She was too bony, bonier then she'd like, but Phobos hadn't seemed to mind in the slightest, which was odder when you got a look at his fiancé. Hermione had been shown a photo from Anne Malfoy, who'd been watching her closely when she did it. Hermione had smiled and politely complimented Phobos's good fortune. Victoria did look a little like Hermione if you were drunk and squinting, just like everyone had said. What they had left out, was that Victoria was thrice as pretty as Hermione. Soft curls, porcelain skin, a perfect curvy body, and oh yes, light in her eyes that indicated she wasn't a haunted mess.
"Yes," Phobos said, squeezing a bit, "although you are an awful trollop, Granger. So what was that all about earlier, with Hortense?"
"I don't know what you mean," Hermione lied. She was sure she'd hid it well.
"Well, you didn't," Phobos said, his hand trailing all over her naked body under the water. Hermione shuddered with want. "you didn't hide it well at all. I mean Hortense didn't notice, but Hortense is quite oblivious. Ravenclaws, you know."
"Yes," Hermione sighed, although even she don't know if she was sighing in agreement at the obtuse nature of Ravenclaws or because Phobos was touching her so nicely.
"So why are you mad at her?" Phobos said, his other hand dropping her half wet hair and joining the other exploring her body as Hermione squirmed, "what did she do?"
"Nothing," Hermione lied, "I mean…it was nothing. Don't stop."
"I'm not," Phobos assured her, "I put a silencing charm on. Mother's out at the Higgs' anyway. Father's off who knows where. Dougal is at work. Ginny is painting in the gardens."
"So why the silencing charms?" Hermione asked, squirming more.
"Well, who wants to traumatize the house elves?" Phobos shrugged, "but feel free to scream your head off, Granger. I'm looking forward to hearing it."
"Make me," Hermione challenged.
Phobos dipped one hand between her legs, the other to her left thigh.
"Oh, I will," he assured her, "quite loudly, too. But first I want to hear what poor innocent Hortense did to deserve your wrath."
Hermione squirmed, holding back noises. He would have to really earn it, if he wanted her to scream. And she didn't quite trust that he had actually put silencing charms on.
It sounded like some foolery he might pull to tease her, and she didn't fancy having Ginny hearing her more intimate moments.
"She likes you," Hermione admitted, her voice a little strained, "Hortense."
"Well, who doesn't?" Phobos said, his hand traveling back up to her breasts as the first moved in circles between her thighs, Hermione biting her lip, "but this isn't news.
We've been friends for years because of you, you know."
"No," Hermione said, now really holding back a moan, "I mean, she has a crush on you."
Phobos's hand stilled for a moment and she couldn't hold back the noise of disappointment that escaped her.
"Don't be daft," Phobos said, sounding surprised, and then his hand resumed and Hermione sighed in relief, "she's a child. And a swot. And a Ravenclaw."
"I didn't say you liked her that way," Hermione said, gripping onto Phobos' thighs now as they encased her own, "I'm just saying she's got a little crush. And she's eighteen, for the record."
"A swotty child," Phobos said dismissively, "although maybe she doesn't bite her lips off just so her paramour can't hear her scream."
"They're not bitten off," Hermione said defensively.
"Well don't break my thighs, now, instead," Phobos said, "I want to hear you scream, after all."
"I know," Hermione said, her breath coming harder now, "that's why you won't."
"Care to make a wager?" Phobos said.
"Sure," Hermione said, "I win and um…"
"I'll buy you a rare book," Phobos supplied, as Hermione was having trouble thinking.
"On mental health charms," Hermione agreed.
"That book probably doesn't exist," Phobos protested, moving his hand faster now, "isn't that what you're up to? Writing it yourself?"
"Something like that," Hermione said, "So, the book I want is rare," Hermione said, her voice half a gasp now.
"Oh, fine," Phobos grumbled. "and if I win, you're wearing my ring for a week."
"No," Hermione choked, sweat beading on her forehead, "what? Why would you even want that?"
"Because you hate that ring," Phobos said, "and I love tormenting you."
"Your hands are much bigger," Hermione argued, squirming hard now. No matter. She was strong. Phobos wasn't particularly experienced. She would win.
"There's this thing, Granger," Phobos drawled "called magic."
"Oh, shut up," Hermione said, and then she gasped out of nowhere, surprising even herself.
"I'll adjust it for you," Phobos said smugly, "for your ring finger. We'll just have to be careful not to run into Victoria."
"Don't remind me I'm helping you cheat on your fiancé," Hermione said, feeling her desire briefly ebb.
"She's using me for my money, don't worry," Phobos assured her, "Audrey overheard her at a party at the Rosiers a few months ago."
"And you don't break it off sooner?" Hermione demanded, then she let out a weird nose between a whimper and a groan that was vaguely humiliating.
"I've been trying to get her to dump me," Phobos said, "If I get her to do it, we get back the down payment on her dowry. It's a family bracelet. Mother will be furious if we lose it."
"Well then," Hermione said, "why hide the ring? Then she'll have to dump you and you'll get that bracelet back for your mother. Not that I'll be wearing the ring either way, as I'll win. Better research that book for me." She bit her lip again so she wouldn't make another noise.
"Good point," Phobos said thoughtfully, "perhaps we should be caught snogging somewhere too. Or mid shag, why not?" and he did something so delicious with his hand between her thighs she tasted blood on her lip.
Hermione tried her best, but by dinner, she was wearing a hideous Malfoy ring on her ring finger while Anne Malfoy started pointedly at it with a little smile and Phobos gloated unbearably.
Hermione could never get used to eating dinner with purebloods. It should've been awkward and stuffy and boring, but the Malfoy twins and Audrey, who often visited and Ginny, who had no filter, made it wildly entertaining instead. Anne Malfoy often pinched her brow and Tenebris Malfoy consumed multiple bottles of wine as their children, adopted child, and niece said horrendously scandalous things. But even a scandalous pureblood dinner contained many courses and golden plates and jewelry, so much jewelry.
Anne Malfoy cornered her at once while Ginny and Audrey had a drink contest in the corner and Tenebris Malfoy watched in detached horror as his sons cheered them on.
"So, my son has made you an offer?" Anne asked, "it's about time."
"Sorry?" Hermione said, choking into her elf made wine. She would have to remind herself when she went back to suggest to Dobby that the elves unionize and market their own wine without their master's input and taking of the profits.
"An offer," Anne Malfoy said slowly, her right eyebrow raising.
In most ways, Anne Malfoy, who of course bore relation to Narcissa through the pureblood way of intermarriage but was not actually, a close relation, looked nothing like Narcissa at all. But that fucking eyebrow raise was all Narcissa. Or perhaps it was all pureblood women who weren't Molly or Ginny Weasley. Hermione had seen Estelle and Marion make that eyebrow raise as well. "of marriage," Anne Malfoy clarified, when it seemed Hermine was still not understanding.
"Marriage?" Hermione said, choking more. "Are you cra—no. No he hasn't."
"Ah," Anne Malfoy said, the eyebrow raising higher, "so you are just…how shall I say this…entertaining my son while he waits to marry Victoria?"
If by entertaining you mean naked broom riding, yes, Hermione thought.
"Naked broom riding?" Anne Malfoy said, darting a look around, although why the hell she was keeping up appearances in her own home in front of her own children Hermione couldn't say. "is that what you kids are calling it now?"
"What did they call it in your day?" Hermione said, giving up.
What was she going to do about her incriminating muttering? Perhaps she should focus on that first, before the other potion? She had no idea why she had started again. She'd been doing so well, up until that meeting with Hortense.
"Are you not saying all of this out loud on purpose?" Anne Malfoy said, her other eyebrow rising now, "are you quite well, Miss Granger?"
"No," Hermione said bluntly, "so you should be happy Phobos isn't er, making an offer or whatever."
"But I'm not," Anne said, her eyebrows back to normal, her voice oddly gentle.
Phobos had been right. She liked his mother, a lot. Too much. So much she could find herself wishing to do what Ginny had done, and made Anne Malfoy a surrogate mother to fill the hole left by her own dead mother. Anne had always wanted girls, Phobos had told her. But her delicate health permitted her no more children after the rough birth of the twins.
"What do you mean?" Hermione said, "shouldn't you be glad he's marrying Victoria? I'm trash compared to her."
"She's trash compared to you," Anne corrected, and for a moment, Hermione felt a lump form in her throat. It had been almost five years since her mother died. What she wouldn't give for someone to tell her she was wonderful with no strings attached, and mean it.
"No one else would agree with you," Hermione said, swallowing hard. She couldn't cry now. She couldn't keep being so weak.
"Victoria doesn't love my son. She barely even likes him," Anne said, "how can I love a girl like that? But you, you love my son."
Hermione swallowed hard again. Did she? She wasn't so sure.
"Tenebris wants our sons to marry for pedigree," Anne said, her eyes drifting to Dougal, who was an Auror and dating a half blood Gryffindor, "but I've always wanted them to marry for love."
"Do you know the truth?" Hermione said, watching Phobos make Ginny laugh, the lump growing.
"Of course," Anne said, "about Ginevra and the rest? Don't be silly. Phobos tells me everything."
I hope not, Hermione thought.
"Well, not what you're referring to," Anne said delicately, and Hermione pinched herself so she'd shut up, "heaven forbid. But do I know you're from another dimension? Yes. Phobos and Dougal were very drunk one night, and discussed the whole situation with Audrey. That's why you must stay."
"Because Phobos has developed a drinking problem?" Hermione said, confused.
"No," Anne said, "because you belong here. Your world is a mess. Your adversary is gone." Hermione twitched, wondering if that meant Riddle or Grindelwald, "your mother has…passed," Anne said delicately, "but my son loves you. I can learn to love you, easily, like a mother."
"No thank you," Hermione said around that horrible lump, "I've got a mother. And a father. And friends. And a...business." But it hurt to say, and Anne Malfoy know it. She smiled gently.
"Then why are you wearing my son's ancestral ring?" she said.
A sex game I lost, Hermione thought.
Anne Malfoy went white.
"Oh no," Hermione said, "did I say that out loud?"
"Hand me that bottle of elf wine, dear," Anne Malfoy said, her voice a faint whisper, "and stop talking. Ever again."
Author Note: Hope you enjoyed!