"You know, if you wanted wrinkles, I could just cast a spell and give them to you." The Gryffindor girl didn't even start at the sound of her grandmother's voice, having taken up residence in a formerly abandoned wing of the manor, one that belonged to her grandfather before he so unfortunately passed away by mysterious causes.

Sidero was a miserable bastard, but Hedmione could not deny that she would have loved to meet him. Sure, her grandpa Henry was a good man as far as she was concerned, but even with him, something was… missing. Currently, she stood before the man's empty portrait, wondering when he would return to it.

She'd heard many a story, that he vowed never to return until her grandmother was dead, that he had another portrait in the home of his long time mistress, Antigone Zabini, or even that he had a portrait connection in a French brothel and that he refused to leave. Whatever the reason, it didn't look like he would be returning anytime soon.

"Sometimes, I wonder if this is a sign," she said, ignoring the steaming cup of tea the woman placed beside her. "Maybe I should go back to England, face the war, and let the Dimitriou lineage die with me."

"Dangerous words, alepoú."

Ah, her old nickname. Alepoú, the fox, the trickster, the clever one. It also was to poke at her hair. Smiling, she rested her head against her grandmother's shoulder, the woman's lips coming to rest on the side of her head. "Come now, your mum and dad should be here any minute."

….

"This can't be real."

Hermione, Neville and Harry stood in the middle of Jocasta's sitting room, each looking to be varying shades of red. The source of their ire, you ask? An officially stamped letter from the Ministry of Magic formally accusing Harold and Josephine Granger of kidnapping Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter, as well as moving them to another country to avoid prosecution of the Ministry's will.

They were waiting for the Dimitriou family solicitor to arrive, Hermione's foot tapping as she reread the letter, knowing that it would not do any favors for her current mood.

Madame Jocosta Dimitriou nee Rosier,

It has been brought to the attention of the Department of Child Safety that a Mr. Harry James Potter was forcibly removed from the home of his aunt and uncle, Messrs. Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Mrs. Dursley stated that a woman by the name of Josephine Granger, formerly known as Antigone Nott, threatened her over the phone that if Mr. Potter was not released into her and her husband's custody, she would use brutal force to remove him.

Mrs. Molly Weasley, nee Prewitt has informed us that she attempted to claim Mr. Potter, as well scion Neville Longbottom at St. Mungo's following the death of the late Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, and his classmate, Hermione Granger, was aggressive with her, implying that Mrs. Weasley insulted her parents.

As of now, Josephie Granger, formerly Antigone Nott, and Harold Granger, formerly Crius Carrow, are both wanted by the Ministry and any attempts to shelter them will be met with the full force of the law.

Cornelius Fudge

Advisor to Minister Rufus Scrimgeour

Ministry of Magic

London

"How dare they?!"

Harold jumped to his feet, moving to console his daughter, leaving his wife sitting on the divan they'd been glued to since their arrival. Wrapping his arms around the girl, he allowed her wretched sobs be muffled by his chest, a steady hand on her back.

'I'd do it again if need be, they were letting Harry rot in that horrible place," Josephine said, a stern expression on her face.

Just as Jocasta went to speak, the main floo blazed, revealing a man who looked rather… familiar.

"Theodore Nott," Neville hissed, about to draw his wand when another man burst out of the fireplace, brushing soot from his undoubtedly expensive oxford shirt.

"What the bloody hell is he doing here," Harry hissed, reaching for his wand when the pureblood advanced towards Hermione before he was nearly tackled to the ground by Josephine, who seemed more preoccupied with covering his face with her lipstick than she was of conquering the Ministry.

"Don't you dare speak to my precious Teddy that way, Harry Potter," Josephine said, wagging her finger at Harry and leaving him thoroughly chastised as Theo blazed red with embarrassment.

A throat clearing sound obliterated the moment as they all turned to a tall, pale lanky man, a mop of curly hair atop his head as spectacles rested on his nose. His clothes were plain, yet clearly expensive, and even the set of his shoulders oozed pureblood aristocracy.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom. My name is Sidero Nott," the man said, reaching to shake their hands. When he got no response, he stood straight, clearing his throat and turning to Josephine, who still held onto Theo like he would disappear. Harold gave him a tight smile as he gently pushed Hermione towards him.

…..

"I have to say, I was rather disappointed when Babo came back with no response to my letter, though I should expect it, as she comes back without a letter every year." She didn't even give him a response, rolling her eyes as she looked around one of the many dining areas in the home.

Evidently, Sidero had come for more than to badger her into accepting her inheritance, but also with the last will and testament of Augusta Longbottom, Neville paling at the mention. Evidently, Augusta used his services shortly before she died, as she didn't trust Theoden Nott with a single sickle of hers, but his sons, however? She was a lot more willing. He'd asked if the younger man wanted to go over his will in a more private setting, but he declined. So there they sat.

"I, Augusta Longbottom, being of sound mind and body, shall rescind my matriarchal status over House Longbottom upon my deaths and leave the following properties to My Grandson, Neville Longbottom:"

"Chateau Lionne in Burgundy, France, Liddell House in Connecticut, USA, Villa Augusta in Siena, Italy, Nevillesson Manor in Vik, Iceland, a few small cottages dispersed through England. As far as Longbottom Manor is concerned, the only one who will live there and entertain me as I haunt the halls for the rest of her life shall be my lifelong friend, Jocasta Dimitriou." The aforementioned Dimitriou choked on the tea she was drinking, eyes wide as her granddaughter whacked her in the back. Sidero continued.

"I also leave you the contents of the Longbottom Gringotts account, with approximately 100 Million Galleons in art, jewels, and bonds." Theo whistled lowly at that amount, definitely nothing to bark at.

"Also, Lad. I hope you're not crying right now. If you are, I'm glad I'm dead and not able to see it because I've never told you, but you're an ugly crier. Either way, I wish you luck. With the way the world is moving, you're going to need it."

Neville's eyes were glossed over, but to his credit, he wasn't outright crying. Hermione offered a hand to him and he took it gratefully, squeezing it hard enough to make her digits go numb.

"So if you sign these papers, you will be emancipated in the eyes of the Ministry and it will cancel out any charges against the Granger's that concern your alleged kidnapping." He quickly took the quill offered to him, releasing Hermione's hand as a faint glow surrounded him, a breath escaping his body that seemed to have been held for a long time. Sidero passed a small, wooden box on the table in front of him, Neville opening it and shakily pulling out a set of rings, ones that likely belonged to his grandfather, and almost his father. Sliding it in his fingers, he gasped as they magically shrank to fit his fingers, another gasp leaving him when he pulled them to the tips of his fingers and they wouldn't come off.

"So mote it be," Sidero said in a low voice, the will of Augusta Longbottom flashing gold before disappearing into a blaze of purple flame.

"Congratulations, Lord Longbottom," Nott said, Harry throwing him a warning glare, bit saying nothing more as Sidero turned to Hermione, a frown coming to the girl's face as she realized what was going to be asked of her. Before anyone else could speak, she rose to her feet, storming out of the room.

…

Being a portrait had to be the sickest version of purgatory Stavros Dimitriou had ever imagined. Or, at least, some version of him. Forced to spend days on end in a two dimensional prison, the only bereavement he was granted was his occasional trips to other portraits, though many of them were rather drab. Honestly, he didn't know what he was thinking, transferring his consciousness into such a useless vessel. At the point he was in now, he would have been better off having pushed his consciousness into one of his house elves. At least then, he could move freely and do magic.

Ah, magic.

What he wouldn't do to be able to cast a single spell. Maybe a simple Cruciatus, his tongue darting out of his mouth as he longed for the feel of the curse flying from his lips. He'd had many a specimen to try it on, watching as they writhed in pain, powerless under the influence of his magic.

He had quickly grown tired of using it on House Elves in his youth. They accepted their fates too easily, oftentimes thanking him for punishing them so that they could better serve him. Such vile little cretin. He never understood why his parents insisted on keeping them, they were so dreadfully boring. Illiterate as well, he made sure that all of his elves knew how to read. Ignorance would be met with a punishment that would stick with them for a long time after.

When he'd met his precious Brann, he just knew that she was exactly what he had been missing. Of all the girls that his mother had presented to him, she was the best, and he didn't allow her precious boy toy to say otherwise.

She was no great beauty, but that did not matter to him. No, this was not about looks, for she had something that called to him, a fire, just like her name.

They'd done it all, the picture perfect wedding, articles in magical newspapers all over the world, tours around the globe, and after three years of marriage, the child that they had talked about day and night. The son that would continue the legacy of House Dimitriou, bring pride to the memory of their former patriarch in a way that even Stavros himself had never been arsed to do. Or, so he thought.

It was a girl. He remembered the disgust he'd felt at the delicate creature bundled in his wife's arms, how she cooed at it, wiped away its hair from its face. Oh God, that hair. Deep auburn, just like the disgrace that was buried in the back of the home, that his mother went to at night, spewing drunken curses at for hours on end. He was sickened.

When Brann realized that he was absolutely not happy to have fathered such an imbecilic creature, the flame was back. He'd taken the time to dim it in the early years of their marriage, placate her with pretty gifts and words of comfort in order to bask in her soft warmth. But now, her flame had burned him, all for that thing.

He would have to snuff it out.

After she was done playing nursemaid to her spawn, he set about breaking her bit by bit. It took much longer than he had anticipated. Hell, the first few times, she had fought him, marring his skin with her nails. He had done something he wasn't proud of in that moment.

He struck her.

He'd been so angry with her after that, making him brutalize her in such a manner. A gentleman never laid his hands on a lady, especially not in such a brutish manner. He'd beaten her, almost like he was some common Muggle. Never had he met a woman more infuriating than the Norwegian sow he married. This just would not do.

But with time, he had used his wand to fine tune her to his specifications. When that spell left his lips, she became putty in his hands, writhing in agony on the ground as she took his punishments freely. He had found what it was that would dampen her fire, and it was that thing she'd birthed. Screaming and soiling itself, depending on her for it's every need.

As it- as she grew, she showed all the signs of that fire her mother possessed. But hers would not go out so easily. She had the fortitude of a Dimitriou. Sadly, she was his greatest enigma, as he never got to break the child that wandered the halls, no matter how much he wanted to no matter how desperately he tried. Whenever she would muck about, his wife trailed behind her, watching her like a hawk. When she evoked his rage, Brann would throw herself over the small child's defiant form, screaming that she was just a child, that she did not know any better.

With time, he had actually almost grown to admire the girl. That was, until she brought that muggle cretin in his home, claiming that they were married, of all things. Brann found it so amusing, that their daughter had been fraternizing with those that were beneath her. "Stavros, she has made a friend," she said. He found nothing of the sort anything to laugh at. The Longbottom boy was one thing, but this Muggle servant girl? Daughter to a window washer and a housekeeper? The girl may as well have been a house elf! Unacceptable. Adad would have to learn the natural order of things the hard way.

He had not expected to torture the child. Even the thought of it sickened him. She was meek, he'd only hoped to scare her. But then she started with the crying and the begging and the wetting herself and he simply could not take it. Then, she began to scream out for his daughter, as if she could actually help her. It infuriated him all over again, and before he knew it, he was covered in blood. His daughter lay unconscious at his feet in a pool of her own blood and the Muggle child was dead. Hed stumbled out of the room, ignoring Brann's screams and demands that he tell her what happened, closing himself in the bathrooms and losing his lunch, and then some.

After that, he needed to get away, go somewhere, just him and Brann. His precious Brann. Even she was becoming distant, disobeying his command, even going so far as to call him a monster. He decided to set things right, schedule them a trip, he could barely remember where this was, and a terrible storm had hit their boat. Everyone on board died, save for him and Brann. She'd sobbed, said this was the punishment they were getting for his sins, blamed him for the wreck. He was so furious, he blacked out once more.

When he came to, his hands were around her neck, half her limp body submerged in the crystal clear waters of some forgotten area of the sea. He had tried to wake her, told her to stop playing around, but it was clear that this was not a joke. He had killed her, his precious Brann, his flame. He had finally snuffed it out, and he could not bring himself to be satisfied. It hurt, he was alone in the middle of nowhere, lost at sea with no energy to apparate.

He'd simply tossed her overboard, unable to cope with the sight of her any longer. There wasn't much to remember after that, the last few days of his life were just flickers, unfamiliar faces and forced words of comfort. It wasn't the death he thought he would have, as such a prestigious head of house, but it was no less than he deserved.

….

"I would've expected you to have made a snide comment by now." Hermione watched as the portrait of her father sat ramrod straight, likely caught deep in thought about something or other. With the way she knew his mind worked, she honestly didn't want to know what.

"Adad," he said, clearing his throat and settling into the chaise painted into the scene he resided in. "I knew it would be a matter of time before you came crawling back to me. How can your loving pateroúlis be of assistance?" If only he wasn't a portrait, she'd smack that smarmy smirk right off of his face. But he was her only hope.

"Will Sidero ever return to us?" The question was simple, but the way he recoiled from the name was enough to bring a smile to her face. It was no secret that Stavros hated his father, though he never got the opportunity to be formally introduced to him.

"Why would you want Sidero to come back? So that he could cowardly abandon his post again? So he could bend to the will of that flaming nutcase you call a grandmother?" She wanted to be angry, wanted to scream at him, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. Resting her head on her hands, she spoke simply.

"Maybe I just wanted to talk to a Dimitriou that actually lasted longer than a year after assignment to give me advice on being head of household. And that 'flaming nutcase' you're referring to happens to be your mother, you self entitled twat. Have some respect." She took little pleasure in the way his eyebrow ticked in annoyance, running a hand through her hair. This was a responsibility she was not ready for by a longshot, but she was expected to take it. It would be the right thing to do, it wouldn't be fair for Harry and Neville to take on the responsibility of saving her parents and she didn't do everything in her power to help out as well.

He sat in silence for a long while, but then his shoulders sagged, legs uncrossing as he stared down at her. "If you want to protect you squib caretakers, it would be in your best interest to accept your fate. Who better to protect one of your little projects than a Dimitriou?"

"My parents are not some little project! I just want to know what I'm walking into, Stavros. Could you just….not be an arse for once and say something productive for once? I'm terrified." This was the most honest she had been with him in a long time. That was it, at the end of the day. She was scared, afraid that the responsibility of restoring her family name would suck the life out of her like it had done to many of her ancestors.

"I told you what you should do, Adad. If you want to save them, then you do what needs to be done. This is not skipping out of Divination because you don't like the teacher, this is accepting your birthright because you have no other choice. None of us had a choice." Honesty hour all around it seemed.

"Now leave sight. I won't have my peace interrupted because you decided to come in and whine like an insolent child." With that, he went back to scowling at whatever book was in his portrait.

Exiting the room, she slowly made her way back to the meeting room, head hung low. Responsibility was new to her, but what option did she have? It was either accept her fate or watch her parents go to Azkaban. Or worse, have their memories modified and she be thrown into another orphanage. Pausing at the door, she sighed.

She knew what she had to do.

Oh my god, you guys, I am SO sorry. I had completely forgotten that this story is posted both here AND ao3! It's been uploaded twice since then and I've left you all hanging, and for that, I am sorry! I've actually started two new stories that I haven't even taken the time to upload here, either. Certain parts might actually be missing, I remember this site has a habit of chopping up my documents, but I hope all stays well.