A/N: Yuck, I haven't updated in too long. I actually have a "good" explanation behind the non-updating thing. I started writing this fanfiction in order to jumpstart my creativity from a long period of inactivity, and it really worked. However, once my creativity got jumpstarted, I started working again on a previous work which was (and still is) unfinished, and I was finally able to continue working on that at a steady pace. Unfortunately, I get so absorbed by creative work that I am only able to work on one "world" at a time, and so this got put aside. I have, however, been wanting to pick it back up, however I can only work on it when I know it won't compromise my work on my other project, which is kind of sacrosanct. I've been considering scheduling time to finish this fanfiction, since the ending is planned and ready to go once I make the time to complete it. I don't know yet how I will manage doing this, but I am actively working on a plan. You can be happy, at least, to know that I am one of those people who has to finish things. Not finishing things drives me up the wall. So this will be finished, it is only a matter of when. Thanks for reading, and enjoy the new chapter. Much love!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: REVELATIONS

She felt an intense desire to avoid seeing Lucius again for the time being, so she assumed the best way to do that would be to leave the Manor and find work to do elsewhere. That elsewhere was, at first, her flat to check for messages. There were, indeed, some messages waiting for her at home.

Dear Hermione,

I meant to congratulate you on how effectively you and Mr. Malfoy have managed the construction of the distantly related Mr. Malfoi. The wizarding world seems to be uniformly in love with Jacques, and with the idea that so are you. You've perhaps fooled me, too, into believing it to be so.

I'm writing to let you know there's been some digging being done on the origin of Mr. Malfoi in the Ministry Archives. I strongly believe this has been ordered by the Minister himself. Be careful.

(A few lines were scratched out with rough scratches of ink)

If you need me, send for me.

Thomas.

Hermione sighed at the letter, and then let out a frustrated groan and threw the letter down on a side-table. It was clear that Thomas was hurt. She'd hurt him. She didn't want to hurt anyone, yet she'd manipulated him and now he knew it and she knew it and yet he was still desperate to help her. It made her sick. Literally. How could Lucius live with himself when he did this sort of thing? Hermione wanted to crawl out of her skin.

She thought about how, if they were successful with Lucius and the Manor, that none of this would have happened. In this case, she was quite pleased about the idea of this part of events never happening. It even relieved her, in a sense. She eyed her desk in the corner, considering writing him a letter, one that explained everything and let him down easy and apologized and so on and so forth.

But she didn't.

She would wait and see. Perhaps there was no need for it. Perhaps it would all disappear from existence. She recoiled inside at the stirrings of newfound cynicism and detachment within her. How easy it was not to care when one assumed that eventually it wouldn't matter. She didn't like that feeling, for it felt like a slow-moving poison in her body.

Next letter.

Hermione,

I had a talk with Harry. I hate the Malfoys as much as Harry, but this is all beside the real problem. Don't worry, you're safe with us. I have access to some information you probably want.

Meet at Hogsmeade for lunch?

Ron

Well, she hadn't heard from Ron in a few years, at least. Despite the fact that they'd realized early on that there wasn't much at all to their prospective romantic entanglement, there was something about him that brought her comfort, even in a few words penned on a page. Something about him made her feel safe and loved. Was it the family he came from? The stability that seemed to always surround him? She wondered, for at least the twentieth time, if she'd made a mistake all those years ago by not finding out if they would have worked or not.

Too late for that, Ron had married a Swedish witch with expertise in trolls. They fit quite well. Better than she and Ron ever would have.

Dear Ron,

I'll be there.

Thanks.

-oOo—

The Three Broomsticks was just like she remembered it: welcoming, comfortable, and snug in the village of Hogsmeade. Hogsmeade itself seemed as if it were displaced out of time, untouched by change, sitting somehow outside of the time-stream in which Hermione lived her life. Within sat Ron at a table, looking more like a wizard than any of the rest of them had managed yet, and she chalked that up to him being the Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts for almost fifteen years. Hogwarts was a traditional place, now that she thought on it.

He stood as soon as he saw her, and gave her a big, sturdy hug.

"Hermione!"

She had to laugh at his kindness.

"Ron, how are you?" she smiled. "Nice beard."

It was getting quite long. Wizardly, indeed.

"Well, you know," he said. "It's the thing to do."

It was.

"How are the children?"

"Growing madly," he said. "My oldest is coming into Hogwarts next year."

"I can't believe it!" cried Hermione, punching down feelings of completely wasting her life.

"I'll have to find someone else to teach her Muggle Studies," he said. "Can't have favoritism, you know."

"Yes, of course," she said, "Nothing like that ever happens at Hogwarts."

And they shared a Very. Hearty. Laugh.

There was more small talk, things that were important but not, but Hermione did care, because this was Ron, after all. After they'd finished being impressed with each other's lives (she with his curated career professor-ing at Hogwarts, he with her adventurous career in ancient book recovery, though neither would have switched with the other), they went on with the real business at hand.

"I don't mind if all the Malfoys disappear from the face of the world, but I'm not keen at all on a Minister who would do what he did," said Ron. "Do you think he was the one behind Mrs. Malfoy's murder?"

"I don't know," said Hermione. "It doesn't add up, him murdering her. We're trying to sort all that out right now, and… I think our best bet for finding out is being able to access Draco's memories."

"Right, about that," said Ron, and he pulled a humongous book out of his satchel, somehow, with much heaving (as it was extra-heavy) and lugged it onto the tabletop between them with a thump. It was at least six inches thick, and Hermione knew that added up to a lot of pages.

"What is that?" asked Hermione, feeling impressed due to being in the presence of such a big book, and that Ron had brought it for her, whatever it was.

"This is for you," said Ron. "To borrow. Don't spill anything on it."

Hermione chuckled.

"Sure, I won't," she said, dragging it across the table to look at the worn cover. Encyclopaedia Protectionis.

"It has everything, everything there is to know, that anybody knows, about wards," said Ron. "Of any kind."

Hermione gaped at it, and then she made a tiny squeaking noise.

"At least," added Ron, "We think so. And by 'we', I mean 'Hogwarts'."

Hermione squeaked again.

"But it came from the restricted section so I'll need it back," warned Ron. "In one piece."

"Oh, Ron!" cried Hermione. "Thank you!"

"Do you think it'll help?" he asked, so guileless.

"It very well could," said Hermione, casting a spell on the tome, shrinking it to a manageable size. She pocketed it like a precious pearl and couldn't help but beam at Ron. "Thank you, Ron, so much."

"Sure," he said, shrugging. "This is important."

"I guess it is," she said.

"You know," he said. "If you need anything else, you just need to ask."

"The same goes for you," replied Hermione with a smile.

"Also," he added, "Lucius Malfoy is a really, really, really bad choice."

Hermione choked.

"You know that, don't you?" he asked.

"How could I not?" she replied. "He's awful!"

Ron gave her a sideways look, under which Hermione crumbled.

"But also not one-hundred-percent terrible," she admitted, wringing her hands.

He groaned and covered his eyes.

"Stop that, Ron!" seethed Hermione. "It's not what you think! And… it doesn't matter anyway. He's going back to his time if we succeed, and we will succeed."

Ron peeked at her from behind his hand.

"We have to succeed," muttered Hermione as she worried, both desperate to succeed and also to fail.

"This has really done a number on you," said Ron with concern.

"A little," said Hermione.

"Well, it's not right for you to have to manage all this on your own," he said. "At least in the old days it was all three of us."

"I have Luna," said Hermione. "And, well, that Secretary from Recordkeeping…"

It sounded pitiful. Ron smiled.

"Call us if you need us."

"Thank you, Ron."

-oOo—

Hermione spent the evening at home, consuming as much as she could of the massive book, but not before sending a note to Lucius. Why did she feel like she had to tell him where she was and what she was doing? They had clearly reached a new level of mutual stewardship.

J,

Ron gave me some helpful information I'm going to study tonight at home. I'll see you tomorrow and then we'll fetch Draco.

H

It was so plain and agonizing. She was trying to keep her focus on one of the drier portions of the book, but she kept wondering if Lucius would reply, and she felt as if she were being stretched and stretched as the hours went on with no reply at all. Of course there would be no reply, there wasn't anything to reply to. It was a simple note with a simple message and what would he write back, anyway? There was nothing to say, obviously.

Still, it would have been nice to have an acknowledgement… or something. Anything. As she flipped another page in the endless book, she began to feel a burning, simmering feeling, indignant, resentful, and an inner-rejection of the disappointment she was suffering at the hands of Lucius Malfoy, who couldn't be bothered to write back, or who didn't care to write back, despite their separation of more than half a day! It didn't matter that she was the one who had imposed the separation due to her own whims, but she wanted to hear from him. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to see him, to smell him, to stand close to him and feel the heat that radiated from him. She wanted to align her quantum mechanics with his in a primeval tangle of nuclei.

And then she recoiled and rejected all of those feelings, because it was ruining her effectiveness in a way she found alarming and irritating and inconvenient. She flipped another page, perhaps with a bit more force than was necessary.

Where was he?

Curse this event horizon! As minutes and hours went by, she stretched and her emotions stretched and her agony stretched, but she was stuck within the firm grip of gravity, and she was never coming out, never until she unlocked the trick to make it all go away; until she found the singularity that would create a new universe, the one that hadn't happened yet, but will have happened once Lucius went back and changed it all and…

Who was she in that other universe that they would make?

She mourned and turned another page. Oh, Lucius. Curse you. Curse you. How I wish you were here. Maybe I would punch you in the face, but probably not.

After trying to read the same page five times in a row and failing, she snapped and grabbed a quill.

Monsieur,

What are you doing? Why are you so silent? You're murdering me.

Shut up,

The Singularity

She sent it off before she could rethink the complete absurdity of the text, and felt a mild relief from her previous torture, and was even able to focus on several chapters of Encyclopaedia Protectionis, some of which were dry as a desert. It was at the point when she was just starting to feel anxiety over what sort of reply she might get from Lucius (if any), and if he might think her crazy and not worth another moment of his time, when there was a quiet, precise knock at her door and she immediately knew who it was.

She opened the door for Lucius, and his eyes cut her to shreds, his scent fell across her like a mantle, and then he was kissing her, taking, taking, and taking, mad and selfish and sure and broken and careless.

She tore herself from the kiss and chided him for leaving the door open, and so he slammed it shut in a way the neighbors probably wouldn't appreciate.

But, right then, she really didn't care about the neighbors at all.

-oOo—

The morning bloomed in sunrise like a funeral, and in her room laid the unorganized matter that Hermione and Lucius had become. They were static, white with glow in the flush of new light, but unresolved and hanging, suspended in nothing, they were nothing, but it was inevitable that they would soon be forced into a new form. Morning was their first reminder of the inevitable.

Hermione allowed her hair to spread like a mad, dark aurora across a disarray of bedlinen as she regarded Lucius with silent resignation. He slept turned over on his folded arms, stretched and facing down into the white, and his roman hair fell across his temple and he seemed so unlike anything she'd ever seen before. She brushed his hair back, off of his temple, but it was only because she wanted to touch it.

He woke at her touch, a deep inhale possessing him, cognizance seeping through him and up, and out, and he looked at her, taking her in, before a soft smile spread over his face and he fell back into his previous pose.

"Good morning," he said, mild, perhaps tired.

Hermione resumed brushing her fingers through his hair, and silence overtook them both. After some time, she broke the silence.

"Is this happiness?" she asked.

"No," he replied, soft. "This is desperation."

She bent over and kissed his temple, perhaps in desperate resignation, and he received her, and they melded together into a singular embrace.

"Are you married?" she asked, running her hand through his hair.

"That depends on time," he said.

"Do you think of yourself as married?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, after a moment.

"Despite displacement?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm not from here, it's as if I've come on a journey to another place, and I will return when I'm done. Just because my wife isn't here doesn't mean I'm not married anymore."

"Adulterer," she accused.

"I am guilty," he relented with a kiss to her neck.

"So am I," she sighed. "But not of adultery."

He drew back enough to look upon her, his eyes a delicate blue in the pale light. "Then of what?" he asked.

"Of wanting to fail," she said, running her fingertips across his fine-grain face. "Because I want you for my own. I want you for me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Oh, I'm an idiot."

And then she turned and stuffed her face into a jumble of sheet, but he followed her and she felt his forehead and his sigh against her back, and his hand on her waist.

"Shall we throw it all away and rule the world, instead?" he whispered.

Hermione's laugh was weak.

"Don't be stupid, Lucius," she said. "Don't indulge me like that. I know you would never resign Draco to this life, not if you can possibly do anything about it. Besides… I don't think your house would allow it."

His arm stretched around her waist and he pulled her back into him.

"Sometimes it is nice to pretend," he said, and then, "I would marry you, you know."

"Oh," she laughed. "Would you, then? I suppose I don't get a say in the matter?"

"You'd marry me in a heartbeat," he said.

Hermione laughed again and elbowed Lucius, breaking their embrace.

"How sure you are of yourself," she said, pushing him down onto his back and leaning over him. He went easily.

"Let's just say I'm fairly decent at reading cues," he said dryly.

She smiled down at him and shivered, recalling the radiation of the night before, the heat, the bending and curving and slowing and willing of spacetime, the colliding, annihilating, ripping apart of matter, and the energy torn from it, released in an eclipse, a radiant shout, a blinding rupture launched into the black of nothing with existential insistence and despair.

He saw it on her face and pulled her down for a kiss.

"I wonder," he said, "What it would take to convince the other you to marry me?"

"It wouldn't be easy," she replied.

"It wouldn't be you, either," he said, a certain sadness in his eyes.

She caressed his face.

"I'll miss you," he said, quiet, and she felt as if something inside of her start to buckle under pressure, a tiny fracture at a breaking point. "Very much."

His voice was so sweet and bare and sad and without guile that she found tears in her eyes before she'd known they could come. She fought to drive them back and he dragged her into his embrace, the embrace that was only temporary but that she wanted to hang, suspended, always.

"Happiness has passed us by," she said. "And we'll never get it back."

"Now you're just being depressing," he said, and she found herself laughing, because maybe she had become a tad melodramatic.

"Oh!" she said, pulling back. "I want to show you something!"

She dragged herself with awkward morning-time ineptitude from the bed, taking her part of the bedclothes with her, leaving enough for modesty for him (because, for some reason, they both needed their modesty still), and fumbled into her bag for her wand and the tiny, then huge, book of Encyclopaedia Protectionis. Flopping back on the bed with the weight of it on her lap, she showed it to Lucius, who took immediate, if somewhat amused, interest.

"That's a big book," he said.

"Ron loaned it to me yesterday from Hogwarts," she said. "It has everything about wards in it that anyone can know!"

"Really?" he asked, testing open the cover and running his fingers across the pages. "It's ridiculously large, almost a parody of a book! How long would it take to read such a thing?"

"Um," she said.

"Have you already read it?" he asked in disbelief.

"No, no, of course not!"

Awkward silence.

"Most of it, yes."

Lucius laughed.

"Well, I had to do something while you were ignoring me yesterday," she said in her defense.

Lucius just gave her a flat look.

"Fine, maybe I was ignoring you a little," she admitted. "But I had to."

"Why?"

"Because I knew this would happen," she said, glancing around to indicate what had happened.

"There are worse things that can happen," he said.

"I know," she said, pulling the book close in her arms. "But, now look at what a mess we've made of things."

"Tell me," he said, and she wasn't sure if he was indulging her, patronizing her, truly interested, or some combination of all three. Probably all three. Still, something in her didn't want to let it go. She didn't want to explain to him the mess this was, and why it was a mess, because that would require unfurling the clenched fist of feelings she kept restrained and would keep restrained for her own protection.

So instead of telling him whatever it was he wanted her to tell him, she got up and started to make for the nearest shower. She heard him fall back on the bed, the soft sound of fabric and matter being shifted by falling mass released at last to the incessant pull of gravity.

"Fine," he said, quietly enough so she couldn't be sure that was what he said, but, whatever it was, it was the last thing she would ever hear him say in her flat.

-oOo-

Thanks for reading! I hope to have another chapter up soon!