Notes: Although we are close to the end, there is still so much to go. Thanks for sticking with me on this journey!
WARNINGS: References to torture, sexual assault, death
41. Play The Mother's Part: Kiss Me, Be Kind
The house is the same. The same Robin's egg blue shutters framing the windows. The same flower boxes—full of snow now, but aching for spring.
Nearly two years and it's as if they never left.
Hermione imagines she has Molly Weasley to thank for this particular kindness. She's seen her parents twice since they were recovered from Australia by a team from the Ministry. Once to restore their memories and another time to give them a brief update on the insanity that became her life once they slipped beyond her reach.
She skipped the unpleasantries, a feat greatly assisted by the curve of her stomach. Her mother took one look at Hermione and burst into tears. For one horrifying moment, Hermione thought the woman was overwhelmed with disappointment—Hermione is rather young for this particular life choice—but the smile cracking her mother's face was too radiant to be mistaken.
Her father was rather more austere in his reaction, but as she headed toward the door of the Ministry briefing room, he caught her arm and pressed his lips to her brow, murmuring, "you know I couldn't be happier for you, but I am going to have to meet the son of bitch who did this to you."
For a man who had uttered fewer than ten curse words in her presence ever, this was enough to knock the air from Hermione's lungs for several breaths. She managed a befuddled nod as she stumbled out the door.
Hermione wanted her parents to know about their grandchild to be. She hadn't considered what such knowledge would imply. Namely that there is a boy in her life and she is now morally obligated to introduce him to her parents before he—
Her teeth grind and she forces her focus to the Christmas wreath her mother still has on the door. Red holly berries and miniature birds dot the evergreen boughs.
It's the same wreath they put up every Yule when she was a girl. She knows one of the birds is missing an eye and that the holly berries are touched up with nail polish every few years when their luster begins to fade. She knows the scent of its fake boughs just as it's pulled from the box in the cellar—musty with a hint of apple cider.
Hermione never thought much about the traditions of her childhood. They simply were. And now she must create new ones—must give a child of her own rites and rituals of the season. And she must do it without him.
They didn't bother with Yule this year, a fact she now regrets. She has no idea if Tom has any traditions of his own, if he even celebrates the holiday. It's one of an infinite number of questions she is running out of time to ask.
Silken curls brush her cheek as Tom stoops to steal a kiss. She sighs, the present sputtering into focus.
She eyes him—the same as ever, leather jacket, dark jeans and black shirt. At least Draco convinced him to wear a bloody button down instead of his usual tee.
"You sure you're up for this?" she asks for the hundredth time. "They are Muggles and I know you… dislike them."
If Tom had more time left, she'd take him to task over his lingering prejudices, but that's not a war they have the luxury of waging. He puts a cigarette to his lips and she promptly rips it away.
"There is no way in hell they find out you smoke," she hisses, tucking the offending object into her pocket.
His lips quirk. "Anything else I should know?"
She's been regaling him with the litany of requirements for the better part of two days. And she knows Tom is hardly a fool. He knows exactly what's expected of him.
But this is possibly both his first and last impression on her parents and Merlin help her, she going to make sure it's as good as possible.
Hermione lets out a breath. "Probably best not to mention you're Voldemort's long lost twin."
Tom makes a choking noise that makes her chuckle. His eyes darken and he shakes his head at her amusement. "You do realize I'm about to have to go in there and face your father, right? The man whose daughter I defiled and then did not marry? The man may be a bloody Muggle, but so am I. If he swings, I'm going to have to take the punch."
"No one is punching anyone," she insists.
"I think you do not properly grasp just how much I'm public enemy number one in that house," he says. "Think about some boy knocking up your daughter."
They don't know the gender of their child yet, won't until after the birth.
Hermione knows Tom's right the instant she considers it. She'd be absolutely furious with the scoundrel who got her daughter into this type of trouble.
"It's different with me," she points out. "This is a bloody miracle."
"But neither of your parents knows that."
And she doesn't plan on telling them. Not when it's all so raw. Not when Tom has defied magic, biology and Death to give her this.
Maybe someday when she understands what's happened. When she can speak about what Tom has done without her throat seizing with sorrow.
She laces her fingers through the fine curls at the nape of his neck and traces the contours of his lips with hers. His mouth opens to her, the taste of clove and mint on his tongue. The kiss isn't heated, but sensually languid, as if they have eternity to explore each other. She pulls away, her lips tingling.
"We can do this."
"Of course we can," he answers, voice rough. "We're the cleverest wizard and witch of our times."
It doesn't matter that Tom's a mere Muggle now. Hermione knows the magic he called upon to create their child is far more powerful than anything that comes from a wand. He found a way to create life, a feat beyond measure. As far as she knows, he truly is the greatest wizard of all time.
She squares her shoulders and knocks.
The door swings open immediately, her mother clearly waiting just on the other side. But her mother's smile is so bright, Hermione forgives her the hovering.
"Mum," she says as the older woman pulls her into a fierce hug.
Her mother pulls back and studies Hermione from head to toe. "You've gotten bigger, darling."
"Just what I need, to be told I'm even more of a whale than before," she grouses.
Mrs. Granger tsks and turns to face Tom. She appraises him in similar manner, pausing at the leather jacket and the combat boots. When she's done, she turns her focus back to Hermione, brows rising.
"And who is this handsome rebel without a cause?"
Hermione huffs a laugh. Eat your heart out, James Dean, Tom is a thousand times more the roguish bad boy. "Mom, this is Thomas Devereux, my boyfriend."
"And the father of your child I assume?"
Hermione's chin lifts as she meets her father's calculating stare. "Yes, dad. That too."
Mr. Granger crosses his arms and glares down his nose at Tom—an impossible task since Tom is nearly a hand's width his superior in height.
"Whatever happened to that Potter boy? And the other one, the redhead? He seemed nice."
Tom is certainly not nice. Hermione swallows, searching for the strength to remind her father that Harry is dead, but Tom speaks first.
"It's good to meet you, Mr. Granger." He extends his hand, waiting to continue until her father reciprocates the gesture. "I know the changes since you've returned from your… sojourn in Australia must be hard to keep track of, but I would remind you that Harry Potter died saving both Hermione and myself."
He drops her father's hand. "As for the redhead. He's the reason your daughter spent ten months in a cell, so I wouldn't hold your breath."
Her father gapes at Tom, clearly torn between being put out at his rudeness and shock at the substance of Tom's declaration.
Deep sapphire eyes survey both of her parents, freezing them in place. "I'm not going to apologize for how I feel about your daughter. Nor am I going to sit at your table and be belittled for giving Hermione what she desired—a child. We are both adults. We may seem young, but we've survived imprisonment, torture and war."
He cocks one dark brow. "I will not tolerate either of you treating either of us like naïve children. Is that understood?"
The Grangers are utterly unprepared for the force of nature that is Tom Riddle. They nod quickly, apologies tripping off their tongues. As much as Hermione wishes Tom took a subtler approach, she knows this is an act of good faith on his part. He can manipulate and charm with the best of them, but the words he spoke to her parents are the honest truth and she requires nothing else from him.
Her mother shakes her head and pushes a greying lock of hair away from her temple. "Well, now that we've gotten to know each other, perhaps it's best to set the table. I made a wonderful lamb stew."
Only a mother could find a way to recover so artfully. Tom graces Mrs. Granger with the ghost of a smile. "Let me help you with that."
They disappear down the hall and into the kitchen, leaving Hermione with her father. He reaches out a hand and brushes a curl behind her ear. "No matter what he says, you'll always be my little girl."
She wishes desperately that she still was. "Thanks, dad."
Her father looks down the hall. They can just hear the murmur of her mother and Tom talking, interrupted by the clink of dishes and the sizzle of food on the stove.
When he turns back to her, he seems a decade older. His auburn hair is greyer than she remembers and his pale blue eyes droop at the edges. "This is what you want?"
Hermione most certainly does not want this. She doesn't want the boy—the man—she loves to sacrifice himself for her and their child. She does not want the only good thing in her life, the tether that keeps her whole and sane, to snap. She does not want to start over yet again. She has shattered too many times already.
But that isn't what her father asks. He wants to know if the life growing inside, if Tom himself, is what she wants. And despite not wishing for any of this, there is only one answer.
"Yes. I love him."
"And he's good to you?"
Beyond dooming himself, he is a dream come true. Bitter salt coats her tongue. Perhaps he is merely a dream. Perhaps she will wake on the floor of her cell and discover this is all some pernicious fever dream.
The baby stirs in her womb, a limb thrown outward.
Hermione squeezes her eyes shut. No, this is all too real. She inhales and smiles at her father. "He is."
"Any reason he hasn't made an honest woman of you?"
She should have expected the question, but it's never come up. She and Tom only just found each other. Marriage is for later, for when you have the rest of your lives together. They may not have tomorrow.
Not that it matters anyway. Hermione doesn't need a document or a church or a ring to tell her what lies between them is real and precious. She's known ever since her blood spilled into the pages of his fractured soul that the ties that bind them are forever.
It may not have started out as anything romantic, but the connection between them transcends magic itself. She holds fervently to the hope that even Death will not tear them fully apart.
"Tom and I aren't like that," she says, unsure of how to explain. "We've been through so much together. Hell, really. We don't want or need anything formal."
Her father harrumphs, clearly displeased. Hermione sighs, digging a hand into her temple. Her father studies her silently, pale eyes searching. Her head is truly starting to throb when he finally nods.
"If you're happy."
"I am, dad."
And although she's simultaneously miserable, it isn't a lie. With Tom she found something she never imagined—a peer in intellect, magical ability and desire. He may not have the same powers he once did, a dark wizard of unparalleled skill, but he still knows every nuance of magic as well as she does, if not better. He is still her equal in every way.
Most importantly, she does not doubt his devotion to her. He's had a thousand chances to leave and he's stayed every single time. Even his profound attachment to Draco could not keep him away from her.
There will never be another like him.
Hermione blinks back the sting of tears. Her father will never believe her if she starts to cry now. She waves toward the kitchen, "I'm sure mom could use some help."
Her father pushes his thinning hair away from his brow and sighs. "I suppose this means I'll have to be decent to the boy now."
She lifts an amused brow. "Were you planning something more violent?"
She can't imagine her father raising his voice let alone his fists. Mr. Granger laughs, deep and hearty. "Hardly. I just figured I could shake him down a bit."
"I'm pretty sure Tom is imperious to such verbal attacks."
"Yes, I rather got that impression," her father admits with a small groan. "Shall we go save him from your mother?"
She glances toward the kitchen. The clatter of dinner preparations has ceased, leaving only the hushed murmur of Tom's deep baritone and her mother's soothing alto. Merlin only knows what her mother is telling him.
Hermione starts down the hall. When she bursts into the cozy kitchen, she freezes in place. Tom and her mother lean against opposite sides of the counter, grins splayed across their lips.
Tom's eyes sparkle a luminous sapphire when he glances to the doorway. "Hermione! Do join us. Your mother was just telling me about the time you tried to be a beekeeper."
That particular experiment ended when a frustrated Hermione grabbed a handful of bees to force them back to their hive. In her defense, she'd been seven and stupid. She'd yet to fully understand such creatures couldn't be directed by the mere force of her will.
She shakes her head, embarrassment prickling her skin for only a moment. She'd endure a thousand tales of her childhood misadventures if only Tom would keep smiling like that.
Hermione spends the rest of the evening with her cheeks aching from the force of her amusement. She hasn't laughed this much in ages. She certainly hasn't seen Tom this happy—perhaps ever.
She realizes she never saw him with anything resembling family before. This is perhaps the first time he has ever sat down to a meal like this. The first time he has been loved because of who he is and nothing else.
The sorrow of it sneaks up on her, dousing the joy so quickly she has to stumble into the kitchen to avoid breaking down amidst the mirth. She leans over the sink, hand over her mouth, breath coming in jerky rasps.
A hand rests on her shoulder and she whirls around to find her mother staring down at her, familiar chocolate eyes pinched in concern.
"Talk to me, Hermione," she murmurs.
Hermione shakes, her fingers digging into the edge of the sink. "I can't. Not here."
"Your father and Tom will be fine," her mother assures, drawing a hand around Hermione's waist and leading her from the kitchen. She follows blindly, thankful to let her mother lead. To finally let go, if only for a moment.
They settle onto the bed in Hermione's old room. It feels utterly foreign. The girl who lived here is long gone. That girl believed in people, in reason, in hope. That girl never lost her memories and then her body. That girl never broke into so many pieces, pieces that scattered so far they could never be found again.
Staring into the depths of love in her mother's eyes, she wants to tell her mother everything. So she does.
In halting breathes she tells her about Harry, about Ron, about the forests and the Horcruxes. She chokes out the words about her choice to obliviate herself, about the Death Eaters and their attempts to break the spell with myriad tortures. When she gets to the depths of her violations, to the brutal rapes, her mother sobs beside her, frail arms clutching her daughter to her chest.
Her voice is a raw rasp as she tells her mother about Tom. She does not lie. She does not pretend he isn't Tom Riddle, the boy who could have been Voldemort, but absolutely isn't. She explains how fantastic his origin truly is, how her blood made him possible. And then she tells her mother how he saved her. How a monster became a boy and then a savior and finally a martyr.
How he will die when their child is born.
Her mother's arms tremble around Hermione's shoulders when she finally trails into silence. The truth weighs down every corner of the room, erasing every echo of the girl she once was, leaving only the woman she has become.
"And there's nothing you can do?" her mother murmurs, voice as devastated as Hermione feels.
She shakes her head miserably. Nothing can change the bargain Tom has made with Death. She knows that all too keenly.
"Oh, baby girl," her mother laments. She draws Hermione closer, tucking her daughter's head under her chin. "This is the moment every parent dreads. When you realize how little you can do to protect your child. When you understand you're powerless."
"I'm scared," Hermione admits, breathing in the familiar aroma of her mother's gardenia perfume.
"You're not alone. When this baby comes and you lose the man you love, you won't face that alone. You have me and your father. You have Draco—I admit I didn't see that one coming—and Ginny and even Astoria. All of us will be there for you. Your child will have a family."
Hermione sags further into her mother's embrace. And for a moment she allows herself to feel the true depths of terror racing through her. The raw vulnerability she keeps locked away in the mangled depths of her soul breaks free, shattering her.
She breaks like a vase crashing onto tile, completely and catastrophically.
She becomes nothing more than a girl clinging to her mother.