She'd been to Dumbledore's funeral.
She'd cried.
Then she'd left a note on her bed. She'd discussed with Ron helping Harry next year with the horcruxes. She didn't even want to think about it. She'd just summoned the books Dumbledore had on them - to her surprised, they were barely hidden in his office - concealed them, then took them home with her, where they'd be waiting for her once the trip with Tom was over. She wasn't taking any chances. She didn't want Tom to see those books, though she suspected he'd already read all of them. So many people were leaving Hogwarts, few would question her disappearance.
Then there was the matter of her parents.
She couldn't leave them the way they were. Not with the war going on.
Obliviate.
Her voice was calmer than she thought it would be. Still. Resolute.
It's one thing to die.
It's another thing to never have existed.
Hermione Granger no longer existed in her parents' mind.
They had never had a daughter.
They had never seen her laugh.
They had never held her when she cried.
They had never told her stories or sang her lullabies.
They had never smiled with pure, unadulterated pride at their little girl's slightly unconventional gifts.
They'd never consoled her. They'd never kissed her. They wouldn't remember the colour of her hair, the exact shade of brown of her eyes - a hazel only slightly lighter than her mother's - they wouldn't know the title of her favourite book, they wouldn't remember the number of times she'd beaten them at scrabble, her scent - cinnamon and lemon drops - they would forget- they would forget… the way she smiled when the sun came out, the laughter on her lips as she saw her first snowfall. Her coming home with a rather large ginger cat. Holidays in France, summers in Devon, winters up in Scotland. They would forget Christmases and Birthdays. They would forget the good days, and the bad days too.
They would forget all about Hermione Jean Granger, the girl with the big brown eyes, their little girl, the pride of their life, the reason why Mr Granger worries so much, why Mrs Granger works so hard.
And that was alright. Because instead, they would be safe. And instead… instead they would be happy.
Safe and happy.
Where was she going with Tom? France first, if her memory served her well.
.
.
.
He found her sitting in his dorm - in plain fucking sight - on a packed trunk, wearing a pale yellow sundress.
"You won't be able to wear that, where we're going." he said, eying her carefully. She looked very pretty, if a little tired. But there was something sad about her eyes, the smile she forced out was a little too wide. There was something off. He tried to ask - she dismissed it. She said she needed a break, a holiday from everything.
"Why not?" she asked.
He'd taken out five maps. She'd eyed them carefully, an eyebrow arched. A few things looked a little off. Some countries did not seem to match with her knowledge of her time period or his.
The first - France. The map looked slightly older, worn out.
The second - a map of Germany. But was it really Germany? Odd bits of Prussia and- was that Bavaria? As a separate kingdom?
The third - Switzerland. No that looked relatively normal - or did the southern borders seem a little strange? Then again she was hardly an expert on Swiss Geography.
The fourth - a map of Italy. She narrowed her eyes. This one definitely looked strange.
The fifth was a map of the mediterranean - the Italy on there did not match the one on the previous map - but there was a focus on Greece and Turkey and-
He grinned, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Confused, Hermione?" He slipped off his school robes and began to undo his tie. She gulped as he started to undo his shirt buttons.
"What are you-"
He gestured to the bottom corner of each map. Different dates scribbled on each of them in Tom's handwriting. 1745 under France's, 1884 for Germany, Switzerland 1524, 1746 for Italy, the map of the Mediterranean was dated 1820.
He took off his shirt, and was about to reach for his belt when she swatted him on the head with a map.
"What?" he asked.
"What?!" she practically screeched, her cheeks colouring bright crimson. "You're practically stripping in front of me! And what in Merlin's name is this?" she gestured to the dates.
"Well," he began, "You said you wanted a 'break', did you not?" He took out his wand and tapped his shirt and robes, now lying on the bed. The fabric of his robes started to lengthen, intricate silver embroidery forming on a now mossy green silken 18th century justacorps. His shirt looked somewhat frillier. He tapped his trousers - these two changed to resemble what one expect a man from the 1700s to wear, not a British schoolboy. His wand then circled his hair, this grew down past his shoulders, falling in soft curls.
"Time travel isn't possible though. I don't-" she began.
He reached out for a dark green book sitting on his bedside table, flicking it open and cutting out the book mark, an emerald ribbon. She narrowed her eyes.
"Time travel may not be possible per se, but world travelling is, remember?" he grinned, before tying his new hair up with the ribbon. "I refuse to wear a wig, though." he murmured.
He brought out his own trunk from under the bed, and gazed at her for a moment. She could feel herself going red.
"I'm no expert, but I don't think that counts as 18th century fashion. In fact, I doubt it would even pass in my time." he grinned, eyeing the plunging neckline of her dress.
She glared at him. She didn't know how to transfigure clothing - it was, in her mind, a useless branch of magic.
"Fortunately for you, I thought about it." he smirked.
"Oh, you have, have you?" she snapped.
"Yes. I took your measurements three weeks ago. You hardly noticed of course, as you seldom do. A new garderobe will probably be waiting for you once we get there. Of course, we will have to sneak through Versailles without your legs being on show."
"Versailles?"
"No, madam Puddifoot's. Of course Versailles, where else, Granger?" he spat. "I'm taking you to a ball. You look as though you could do with some dancing."
She tensed. "I don't dance."
"Everyone can dance, Hermione."
She laughed. "I never said I couldn't dance. I just don't do it." She'd danced at the Yule Ball, after all. Her night-time waltz with Viktor seemed like eons ago now. "I-I'm not in the mood for it."
He yawned. "Listen, we have to go quite soon, otherwise someone will come in. Not only will they see you looking like a harlot parodying a daffodil in that attire, but they'll also spot me in this ridiculous costume."
"Why 1745? Why not-"
"I have research to do, which I need your help for." his lips curled into a smile.
Of course. Always an ulterior motive.
"Besides," he added, "The king's giving a masked ball in honour of the Dauphin's nuptials. It'll be a little wintery, a February affair, of course, but I was thinking we should attend."
"Why?"
"Because I need to meet someone there."
"Who are you meeting?"
"You'll see." he drawled.
"So I'm just there to give you an excuse? A girl on your arm to parade around?" she could feel herself getting angry. This was supposed to be a calm holiday. Maybe a small wander around Paris, a couple museums, a few bookstores, coffee and a croissant in the morning. A break from this life. Not an excuse for him to further his knowledge of twisted forms of magic.
"No. You need to relax, this'll take your mind off Dumbledore and every-" Dumbledore. He was bringing Dumbledore into this? To justify his own sick goals?
"You're taking me to a masked ball in 1700s, cholera-riddled France to relax?"
"Look, I thought it would be nice."
"Do you have any idea - any idea - how dangerous this is, Tom? You're dragging me off to 18th century France, so that you can meet some random person, for one of your insane little projects, under the pretext that it'll help me 'relax'? What is it this time? Resurrecting a dead king? Are you going to drink his blood to gain eternal life? Tell me Tom, because for once, maybe I'd like to know what you're bloody planning on doing! Do you have any idea what-" her words poured out in a flurry of anger, tripping over her tongue, she could no longer tell why exactly she was so frustrated - was it really the trip? Or was it Dumbledore, or Harry, or… or… her parents. "- and you thought it would be nice." she spat, "to get dragged through plagues, wars, time-line changes, in a place which-"
"Yes I thought it would be nice. Alright?!" he retorted angrily. His eyes seemed to flash red for a moment.
"How on earth is nice Tom, this is all, as usual, all for your own sick twisted ambition - just how is it-"
"BECAUSE IT'S WHAT COUPLES DO, HERMIONE." He sat back down on the bed, his head between his hands. "Sweet Salazar woman." he muttered.
"What did you say?" she asked, her lip quivering.
"It's what couples do. They go out dancing."
"I-Oh." was all she could say. Her head was swimming. Couple? Since when had this-
He almost looked amused at her outburst. "Is that an 'oh I'm coming Tom' or 'oh fuck off.'"
She bit her lip. "I still want to know who you're meeting."
He sighed, took out a handful of ash and drew a few runes on the floor.
"Well?" he asked, extending his hand.
She took it.
A/N - (of course, normal disclaimer that this world most certainly does not belong to me - the characters are very much the wonderful J.K. Rowling's - I've merely taken them out for a very unorthodox spin.)
Thank you so so much to karuizawa, Lena, Christine Rose, Mimosa and GarbleTurkey for reviewing the last chapter! :)
Any feedback/review/criticism/cake recipes are greatly appreciated - so please do leave a note! Also - chapter 11 's coming up quite quickly after this.
x Calliope