Notes: Well, here we are. Thank you so, so much, everyone who read, faved, followed, or commented on this fic. Those of you who also write, you know this, but it means so much to know that something you wrote affected others and that they enjoyed it.
This is a long, somewhat rambly wrap-up, but there are several issues that I needed to touch upon. I decided to address a topic I'd formerly considered a "can of worms" and hadn't wanted to deal with, mainly because it would be a glaring omission not to have it brought up at all. I think (hope?) that it's dealt with realistically, given the characterization of these two in this story's universe.
There are several ways in which this story's conclusion (mostly events of the previous chapter) turned out differently than I had originally intended. Mostly happier, to be honest. But I will say this much: The final scene is exactly what I envisioned from the very beginning. I hope you like it.
Late edit: I made a slight expansion to the fade-to-black naughty scene.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Those Who Meddle
"Shocking business," the Minister said, shaking his head as he surveyed the scene. "Shocking indeed." He turned to Slughorn beseechingly. "You're quite sure—?"
Slughorn rubbed his head and frowned. "Saw it myself. Black didn't react well to the disappointment of Ogden's promotion, it seems, to say and do such things."
"Harboring such an outlandish idea about the heroes," the Minister muttered. He cast a dark gaze at Arcturus Black.
"I'm sure, Minister, that he's also having trouble dealing with the loss of his cousin—and in his own house," Tom put in, a compassionate-looking smile on his face.
Hermione had to control her expression.
"Undoubtedly," Dippet said. "Still, this is unacceptable behavior. And his paranoid belief cost Lestrange his life… and his son, years of his memory. I hope he's happy."
Tom pasted a contrite look on his face. "I regret that," he said.
"Of course you do," the Minister said at once. He ambled over and patted Tom on the back. "He is a schoolmate of yours, and a housemate, isn't he?"
Tom nodded, eyes cast down. It was very convincing. "I'll want to visit him in St. Mungo's. I feel… responsible for his recovery, given what happened."
I'm sure you do, Hermione thought. You admitted you would remake him to suit your own purposes. Though I guess… I can't criticize anyone on that subject.
"Well, naturally, but it's the fault of the wand you won from Grindelwald, no doubt." He gazed at the broken pieces of the Elder Wand, which now rested on the Blacks' side table. "One never can tell how a taken wand will act. They often imbibe magic from their holder. It's probably best that you have to use your own now, though of course you'll want to keep the pieces as a memento." He turned to Hermione. "And you—are you quite all right, Miss Green?" Spencer-Moon asked her solicitously. "No lasting harm?"
"Mr. Black used Legilimency on me to try to confirm his silly theory, and it gave me a headache briefly, but I wasn't injured in the duel," Hermione replied.
"Good," the Minister said. He managed a brief smile, then worry spread over his face. "Of course, Black and Nott will have to be punished for this… I'll have to consult with Bob about the penalty for kidnapping… a few months in Azkaban, most likely…." He frowned. "Unfortunate business. His daughter was going to be married… and then—well." He trailed off, gazing around uncertainly, looking concerned, as if he had said too much.
Hermione instantly understood what his concern actually was. So did Tom.
"Minister," he said tentatively, "if I may…?"
Spencer-Moon looked apprehensively at Tom.
"It would be unfair if people engaged in guilt-by-association, of course. But unfortunately, as you know, such things do happen, especially to leaders… and so it might be best to thoroughly disavow and distance the Ministry from… well."
Hermione was once again impressed. Instead of telling the Minister to his face that people would use his friendship with Black against him, Tom was couching the issue in terms of "the Ministry," while letting the man know that he knew exactly what he was really worried about, and pretending that he was the Minister's ally.
"Yes," Spencer-Moon said, grasping at the lifeline. "The Order of Merlin. It was… yes, best to withdraw it, since it wasn't for heroism—not like yours and your fiancée's."
"Oh, I wasn't suggesting anything in particular," Tom said modestly. "This is a grieving man, after all."
Hermione wanted to smack him. From the look on his face, Dumbledore saw through this performance too.
He doesn't know anything else, though, she reassured herself.
In a short time, a delegation of Aurors and Healers arrived. Dumbledore and Slughorn were deputized to take the students—minus Roland Lestrange—back to Hogwarts. Hermione was relieved to get away from the scene at last. That did not mean she would not have some questions for Tom once they returned to school.
Back in the Room of Requirement, Hermione held the diary, feeling its familiar aura of magic and Tom's essence. Idly she ran a finger over the cover. Tendrils of energy shot up her arm. It was still startling, but quite pleasant. I shouldn't think that. This is a very Dark artifact created by a shocking act, she chastised herself, but it was no use. It was still a part of Tom.
"Why did you bring it?" she asked him, placing the book in the drawer of her nightstand.
He sighed. "I think this influenced me." He reached into his robe pocket and took out the pieces of the Elder Wand.
Hermione scowled. "I thought it had to be. I hope you aren't still angry at me for snapping it. That wand had to go."
Tom set the pieces on the table. "Reparo," he said, pointing his yew wand at it. The pieces fused together, but a visible fracture remained.
"I hope that's just for sentimental reasons," she said. "It won't make it usable again."
Tom frowned. "You needn't sound so pleased about it. This wand was an important piece of history."
"Then donate it to a museum, or display it in a cabinet," she added as he sneered at the suggestion to donate anything. "There are lots of items that are important pieces of history that should not be used anymore."
He scowled but could not argue the point.
"Another thing," she said. "I don't know how important this really is, since Lestrange didn't actually abduct me from this room itself… but he did know I'm living here. How? Did you figure that out?"
Tom looked very uncomfortable suddenly. Hermione grew suspicious.
"Tom, how did he know?" She met his eyes and glared. "If you don't tell me, do keep in mind that I can look up the charm and figure it out for myself, and you'll wish you had."
He winced.
"I've botched spells before, you know. Making a mistake is something that happens to everyone… even you."
He sighed and steeled himself to give the explanation, still not meeting her eyes as he did. When he was finished, she was trying to decide whether to slap him, laugh, or smirk triumphantly.
"Don't say it," he muttered.
"Don't say what?" she replied, unable to keep the smirk off her face.
"One of us would be dead if I hadn't made it."
"Or the situation wouldn't have arisen at all if the Fidelius Charm hadn't been broken."
"It would have happened eventually," he disagreed. "Black wasn't going to go away without a fight. He had to be discredited, and he has been now. And you said that Lestrange got you in the back. That could have happened anytime." He looked her in the eye. "Sorry, Hermione, but without the Horcrux, either you would have been killed, or I would have been. And then your bloody future would have been an unknown that you would have little control over."
Hermione blinked. She could hardly believe it, but he was actually implying that he might have jumped in front of that curse for her even without the diary. She didn't want to inquire further on that subject; it was too… too precious an implication, really, and if challenged, he might walk it back, add qualifiers, or become sullen about the admission. She focused on the rest of his statement. Almost as importantly, he had indicated that she had very significant control over the shape of the future if he was in that future. He was conceding that she could influence him.
Well, I suppose he can't deny that after the scene at Grimmauld Place, she thought.
She turned to him with a hesitant smile and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her.
"I'm glad neither of us died, then, and not just for the sake of 'my bloody future.' I can always carve a place for myself, and I am considered a hero as well. I would have been able to influence the future on my own. I just don't want to lose you, Tom."
His eyes widened. She looked back evenly at him, the truth readable in every feature of her face. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it.
Abruptly he pulled her into his lap. "You won't," he said. His right hand slipped under her skirt and began to travel up her thigh. "And it's as I said the night I proposed to you."
"In a manner of speaking," she muttered wryly, remembering that.
Fingernails dug into her skin in response. "It's as I said. People like us should be the ones with power."
She grimaced for a second at the mild pain, and at the fact that his thoughts would so quickly land on this. But at least he wants to share it with me, she thought.
"We can make the wizarding world what it should be. Muggles can make some impressive things," he conceded, "but magic can improve them."
Hermione curled into him, liking this train of thought. The wizarding world would have wireless by her time, and it already had adapted photography to magic. A few select Ministry officials could have automobiles with magical expansion charms. Why not telephone, television… and eventually even more advanced technology?
"We really need to stop using the term 'Muggle-born,' what with Grindelwald's research on that subject."
"I agree with that," Hermione said bitterly. "It's really no better than 'Mudblood,' when you consider it. It's a way of separating people like me—of saying we aren't like other wizards, and we know now that's not even true. Everyone with magic has magical ancestors. They were so stupid about it in my world," she said, getting worked up. "'No one should care about their ancestry; it means you must be prejudiced and focused on the irrelevant past, and Grindelwald was a villain, so let's not talk about what his people found,'" she mocked. "Instead of seeing it as a way to change intransigent minds by speaking their own language."
Tom laughed, his eyes glinting with enjoyment. "Listen to you."
"And then not even introducing our families to it until we're eleven! When accidental magic happened, going behind our backs to do clean-up, but never telling us!" She shifted in his lap.
Tom held her tightly, but it was evident that he was really enjoying this rant.
"Well, that stops now. Or rather, it stops as soon as we can write it into law: They are to be told about it in infancy, and offered support for their child—I think a designated case worker, someone they can get to know over time, instead of a succession of bureaucrats."
Tom's eyes gleamed. "You know, Hermione, if that's done, we can remove restrictions on underage magic. Not that it's relevant to us anymore… but it used to be."
"The Trace—" Hermione began.
"Detects any spell cast by anyone, so it's actually only placed on Muggle homes, where they would assume there was only one source of magic," he said, sneering again. "Did you know that?"
She scowled. "I figured it out eventually. There was a lot of misinformation in my time about how it worked, but I knew that, for instance, this pureblood boy I knew, a Malfoy, couldn't possibly have been under the Trace, or it would have picked up everything his Dark wizard father did too."
"Well, you're correct. It was stupid, too, because it wasn't put on you personally, just your residence… but it sure would keep some children from practicing their spells during the summer, unlike every other child. At least, every other child whose parents let them use their natural gift." He stared at her triumphantly. "And the fact that you and I managed to become so good despite that proves how superior we are."
Of course that was his conclusion, she thought. But… they were superior. They were powerful and intelligent. That, after all, was why she had been drawn to him in the first place.
"There's something else, though," he said, his face changing. "If we bring in all these relatives and call them Squibs, we should discourage relationships between wizards and outside Muggles." His face closed up, and his voice became clipped. "I get that we don't need to inbreed. We just left 'Exhibit A' of that," he said with a nasty, if forced, laugh. "But the Squib relatives should be good enough. They're already in on the secret. It's… not a good idea otherwise."
Hermione frowned at this for a moment before realizing, in a flash, exactly why Tom believed that. Marriage to an "outside" Muggle hadn't worked out for his mother.
Of course, it didn't help that she drugged him with what amounts to a date-rape potion. But she didn't say that. Instead she turned and embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder.
He was not sure what to make of this response. It seemed to be… maybe not pity, but sympathy, definitely, and he didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him. Not even Hermione.
He patted her back gingerly, then decided that it was time to change the subject away from this uncomfortable territory. He wasn't even sure why he had brought it up. He had made himself vulnerable. His tone of voice had been very revealing, even uncharacteristically so—but then, that happened with her a lot.
"On the other hand, I think there are some areas in which we should have more contact with the Muggle world," he said lightly. She raised her head off his shoulder and looked at him quizzically. His eyes flashed, and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "You have invaluable knowledge of the future in the Muggle world, and I'm going to find out exactly what needs to be fixed. What Muggle leaders need to be… pushed."
She drew back and stared at him, dismayed. "Tom!" she rebuked. "You cannot put Muggle leaders under Imperius—" She broke off as he started chuckling. "Wait, is that a joke?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Is it?"
He smiled benignly.
Hermione stared at him, unsure whether to be mildly annoyed over a joke at her expense, or alarmed about the statement. Was he serious? He was acting as if it had been a joke, a way to divert the conversation away from an uncomfortably personal reveal. But at the same time, high-handedly Imperiusing important Muggles to shape the world as he liked was exactly the kind of thing he would want to do.
I have influence over him, she reminded herself. If he means it, and if he ever tries it, I'll just…. Just what, though? Like so many subjects, this one didn't have a simple answer anymore. The Muggles' nuclear weapons would detonate as scheduled, and there was nothing she or Tom could do about that. But in a few years, the Cold War would begin, and she would live through it. Her country would lose its holdings and superpower status. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to reshape some of the worse parts of twentieth-century Muggle history. She had already reshaped wizarding history—she hoped for the better.
I'll figure that out later, she decided.
June 1945.
NEWT exams were over. Hermione, predictably, had been a nervous wreck throughout them. She had wanted to relive each test with Tom, and his response to that had been—somewhat painfully, she had to admit—not unlike Harry and Ron's after OWLs.
"You did fine," he said dismissively after the Defense practical.
"I got an E in my OWL for this one," she fretted. "It's always been my weakest area."
"You've had me for a tutor for months," he said arrogantly.
She scowled at him but did not argue the point.
He wasn't finished. "Besides," he said, "no one's going to care about your test scores. Weren't you going to start your own organization, anyway? You don't have to meet anyone else's NEWT criteria for that."
"I'll need money to start an organization, which means I'll have to ask for philanthropy… which means I must be credible," she said. "I'll need to work out exactly what I want it to be about. I think—a mix of legal policy and magical research. But the money is a problem. Part of the reason why magical advances aren't that common is that you have the Ministry, St. Mungo's, and some independently wealthy people, and pretty much no one else has the money to fund research expenses."
A gleam appeared in Tom's eyes. "Or you could 'invent' something very lucrative from the future."
Hermione looked appalled at that suggestion. "I'd feel like a thief, stealing from whoever was supposed to actually invent it."
"But if there are things that significantly improve people's lives… wouldn't it be better to start improving their lives earlier? To improve more lives?" he said, suppressing a grin. "Especially if you did use the money to fund your organization. What's more important, the wealth of one person, or the good you could achieve for so many?"
Hermione stared hard at Tom. "I know what you're trying to do," she said. "I recognize that tone of voice."
He put on an innocent expression. "It's just something to consider."
The thing is, I am actually considering it, she thought to herself as he settled on the sofa next to her. Something like… Wolfsbane, perhaps. I would be taking credit for something that wasn't my idea… but that would indeed improve many lives in a really important way. Maybe he has a point.
Hermione leaned against him, trying not to think too hard about what was already happening. She could influence him, but he was able to influence her too.
He draped an arm around her shoulder. She smiled and curled closer to him. He tightened his grip, satisfied that he had at least talked her out of her anxiety over the examinations. There was something else he wanted to discuss, anyway.
"So," he began, "about that flat."
They had picked out a very nice little townhouse in an area of London that had not been badly affected by the bombings. Tom intended at some point to take possession of the Riddle property in Hangleton and rent it out, though he did not mention it to Hermione after her extremely disapproving response to being told. He didn't want to live there, though. She was glad of that. In addition to the Riddle house's ugly history, being in the city would make her feel less isolated. Less, well, stuck with only him for company.
"What about it?" she asked.
"Well… since neither of us has anywhere else to go, it would make more sense to move in immediately."
"I agree."
He looked relieved. "Maybe not literally immediately… I mean, I could take a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a few days."
Hermione suddenly understood where this conversation was going. In her time, it would have been a non-issue for an engaged couple—or just a couple—to live together. No one whose opinion she valued (except perhaps for Mrs. Weasley, she thought with some disgruntlement) would have cared. But this was 1945, and people would care, especially the kind of people that she and Tom needed to cultivate.
"I see," she said slowly. "Well, you know what I want. Us, Slughorn, Dumbledore—no, don't look like that, he has to be there and you know it—maybe the Rosiers, perhaps Dippet—he likes us—maybe Ogden… but a small guest list. And a fairly informal event."
"Sounds good to me." He pecked her on the cheek and turned away at once, facing forward and staring at the opposite wall.
She instantly recognized that either it didn't actually sound good to him, or he had something else on his mind but apparently did not want to bring it up, whatever it was. She wasn't going to have that. "What is it?" she asked. "Something is bothering you. Do you dislike my plans?"
He shook his head. "I'm fine with your plans."
"Then what is it?"
He would not look at her. "I was thinking about all that comes after."
"Are you having second thoughts?" She hoped not, at this point. He considered her his, after all. Surely he wasn't having doubts now.
"Not second thoughts about you, but… oh, bugger it, I don't know how to say this. It's something I didn't think I would ever care about, but because it's you, I suddenly do… and I'm really getting the impression that you don't want it at all." His features curled into a sneer. "With me, at least," he added darkly.
Hermione's eyes widened. "You mean—a family?" That did surprise her. If Hermione had been asked when she first arrived in this time if she believed he would be interested in that, she would have responded with an unequivocal "no." Apparently, that too had changed.
He glowered defensively, as if embarrassed by the confession. "Strangely enough, my personal interest in the future of the wizarding world has now taken that path too."
Hermione collapsed on the sofa and closed her eyes. This was entirely unexpected, and she did not trust herself to speak to him honestly about it. She was not against the idea of becoming a mother, in the general case. In fact, in her original time, she had wanted to. It had been part of her long-term life plans. But her circumstances had changed. She did not think Tom would be a good father at all.
But she had wanted it, and it seemed that he did too now.
I don't have to do this, any of this. He would be angry and unhappy, and probably would badger me for the rest of my life, but he won't force me to marry him. But if I don't, then…. She sighed again as she arrived at her conclusion. He wouldn't countenance it if I saw anyone else. If the Unspeakables made traveling to the future perfectly safe and I left, he would follow me. He's already said he would. I truly would have to betray him to get away from him, and I know I can't do that now. If I ever do have kids, they'll be his.
Why did he even want them? It was possible that, given his extremely high opinion of himself, he might consider it right and proper to pass on his traits, like Parseltongue, high intelligence, and magical power—or for there to be people who were the offspring of himself and the one person he deemed worthy of his companionship. Hermione's mouth twisted at this train of thought. It did not reassure her that he would be a decent parent, quite the opposite in fact.
"I really didn't expect that, Tom," she finally said. "The other you was not interested in it in the slightest."
"The 'other me' wasn't interested in much of anything except violence and pretending to be something he wasn't. I hope you don't still judge me based on that."
"It's a path you could have taken," she said. "But… I just need to think about this, Tom. You're correct that I didn't plan for it. It's not that I don't want it, but I really didn't consider it."
He subsided, watching her carefully. She tried to hide her emotions as she thought about it.
He wanted—wants—to be immortal, and is, more or less. What would he think of the fact that his children would someday die?
That, unfortunately, Hermione could easily answer. He has the Resurrection Stone and would use it if he had to, she thought. Just like the second brother. And also— She recalled his statements the day they had officially made up.
"I don't even want to lose you to death."
"I hope you reconsider that someday."
Oh, she had her answer. He would indoctrinate them in the Dark Arts, she thought grimly. He would care about them, certainly, but then, he also cares about me. And just how does that manifest?
She closed her eyes and covered them with her fingers. He's dark with me, but he would be darker without me. Even if he only doesn't do something because he knows it would displease me, at least he doesn't do it… and several times I have talked him down from killing. Voldemort always lurks beneath the surface for him, in one manifestation or another, and if I want to keep him from becoming that thing, I have to remain close to him. And, so help me, but… I love him.
She couldn't explain why, in rational terms, but neither could she deny the fact. Of course, no one would ever claim that love was rational. Despite the shady politicking, the espionage, the lies, despite all of the darkness—she still did. He was unlike anyone she had ever known and probably ever would know.
Still, this was a hard future to face, committing herself to staying with someone she knew was dark in order to keep him from destroying his life. Knowing she would always, always have to decide what darkness of his she ought to limit and what she had to avert her eyes from. What is right rather than what is easy, she thought, though it wasn't often self-evident which was which. Some people would argue that what was right would be to destroy the diary or turn in Tom, and that she was taking a coward's way or a romantic fool's way, but it was not that simple. In her view, that was the easy choice. It was certainly the choice of someone who had given up on him. She was convinced that the right one was what she was going to do… but it was also the hard one, and it was a life that she feared would result in her eventually losing herself if she did not have anything of her own. No, not feared—knew.
She loved him, but she was tired of the prospect of sacrificing everything she wanted for him. Relationships, even normal ones, involved compromise, but it should never be this one-sided. She was not going to forfeit this dream, any more than she intended to give up her burning desire to improve the wizarding world. If she wanted kids someday, she would have them, and she simply would not allow their father to turn them into younger versions of himself. It wouldn't be now, nor for several years, but perhaps someday. She might never get her old friends and family back, but she could have this. They might even be able to help him in ways that she could not, she hoped. In any case, she had chosen to give him a second chance. She should also give herself one.
She opened her eyes. "I would do it—eventually. In five or so years, maybe. But I'm nineteen, Tom, and I want to get this other thing established first. It'll take a lot of my time to get it started and running."
He met her eyes, stared into them, and then broke the gaze. He nodded quickly, and a faint smile—a real one—appeared on his face.
Then it transformed into that smirk of his. "If it's five years, we can get in a lot of practice," he drawled, reaching for her waist and hips and moving to pull her off the sofa.
Oh no you don't, she thought suddenly. As she got to her feet, she took control of the situation. She put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a hard, aggressive look. His eyes widened.
They remained wide as Hermione walked him assertively toward the bed, though gleams of desire began to show. His eyes widened even more as she pushed him onto the mattress on his back, fully dressed. His head sank into the huge fluffy pillows. Her confidence growing by the moment, she mounted him, straddled his waist, and pressed his head further into the sea of cushions. His eyes returned to normal and his gaze flickered quickly back and forth. Her palms rested firmly on his shoulders, and she stared at him smugly. He stared back at her in profound approval, a grin playing at the corners of his lips.
"I'm pleased that you want me this much," he said.
She smirked back at him and ground against his crotch, making him squirm. "I'm pleased that you want me to show it this way. I thought you liked being in total control."
"Who says I'm not?" he managed to gasp. "Perhaps this is what I intended to happen."
She pushed him back into the pillows again and threaded the fingers of one hand into his hair. "Perhaps you lie. Let's find out who is in control this time, shall we?" Her other hand strayed to his trousers.
"It would be my pleasure."
The end of term was only getting busier, it seemed—though perhaps it was because, in addition to preparing for the end of school, Hermione also had to begin furnishing a house and throwing together some sort of wedding. It would be held after the term ended in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, which had built-in security to keep away unwanted gawkers. She was very glad that she had put her foot down about making it a small, private event, rather than a public spectacle and a planning nightmare. Her thoughts about it were measured enough as it was, and completely lacking in girlish excitement. Of course, that was probably a blessing. Most women who had that sort of giddiness were let down later as the reality set in that they were married to imperfect human beings. At least in her case, she knew what she was getting into.
She had just received a package from Twilfit and Tatting's, a very specific package, and was about to try it on and determine what magical adjustments needed to be made, when Dumbledore intercepted her in the corridor.
He glanced quickly at the package, then back to her. "Would you come to my office, Miss Green?" he asked kindly. "I have news that may interest you."
"Of course," she said at once.
Once inside, she sat down opposite his desk. He took off his half-moon spectacles and set them down on the desktop.
"When I was at the Ministry earlier in the term—that day that those unfortunate events occurred—I dropped by the Department of Mysteries to meet some former students who now work there."
Hermione was cynically surprised by that; she could not recall him ever checking in on his past favorites by the time he was an old man. Maybe, she thought, he simply had too much on his plate. Maybe that was another part of the problem all along: The man was spread too thin, trying to do too much, and not doing any of it very well as a result.
She did not dwell too long on that, however, because something else made her ears perk up. The Department of Mysteries. She had a feeling she knew where this was headed….
"Yes, you have guessed what I am about to say," he said, noticing her expression. "They were working on Time-Turners. I did not, of course, betray your secret, but I was obviously quite interested in their progress. Since then, they have developed a device… I believe it could send you forward, if you wished to return."
Hermione felt sick. She didn't want this choice. Not now.
"There is, unfortunately, a catch: What would happen to you in the future is unclear. They don't know what would happen to your memories in the transition. The 'other you' would have to be sent back, of course, because otherwise the Unspeakables theorize that you would share your memories and consciousness, but they really do not know what would happen to a traveler otherwise. Your memories might be merged with those of the 'other you,' they might be erased and overwritten, or they might be left as they are. To be honest, Miss Green, I cannot decide what option of those three would be preferable."
Hermione's nausea doubled. Why would Dumbledore think she would want to take such an appalling risk? Let alone that dropping out of this new timeline would make it highly uncertain what sort of future she would be traveling to.
She took a deep breath. "I appreciate your interest in my—situation—and that you took the trouble to look into this," she said slowly, "but I can't take that risk. I don't know what I would be going back to. Based on what you just told me, I don't even know who I would be." She frowned thoughtfully. "I was issued a basic Time-Turner in my third year."
Dumbledore nodded encouragingly.
"When my professor gave it to me, she impressed something upon me: 'Awful things happen to wizards who meddle with time.' That was what she told me. I'd rather not say too much, but Professor, something awful has already happened to me."
He looked concerned.
"I've lost everyone I knew," she said. "I don't mean that they aren't with me anymore. Most of them had already died. I mean that I have changed some things in such a way that the future would be quite different from the one I left behind. None of the people I knew would be the same. I won't get them back, at least not as I knew them. You said in September that I needed to establish a life for myself here and now, and I think I have. If I went forward, I'd lose everyone I've come to know in this world, but from the sounds of it, yet another awful thing could happen to me. I might lose myself."
Dumbledore sighed. "You might, if what they told me is true—and I have no reason to doubt it. You don't wish to attempt this, then?"
She shook her head emphatically. "No. I think I've figured out what I need to do in this time. It wasn't just one thing. It wasn't just changing a few things and then skipping back. It's a commitment."
Fawkes, she noticed, was outside his cage, perched on the windowsill. He let out a soft coo and flew over to her. She flinched, remembering in an instant what had happened the last time he did that, but she was not holding a Time-Turner now. The phoenix alighted on her shoulder and rubbed his feathered head against her cheek.
"You are the Fawkes from my time, aren't you?" she muttered to the bird, lightly petting him. "You sent me back." She turned her head slightly, meeting avian eyes with human ones.
Fawkes merely stared back at her inscrutably.
As much as Hermione believed that the wizarding world needed to adopt more customs and inventions from the Muggles, she was glad that they had their own customs about weddings. She could get away with wearing a dress that was not entirely white—that, in fact, had black on it, at least in the embroidery and lace on the skirt—and no one thought it inappropriate. Indeed, the Muggle custom of solid bridal white was the one that was considered peculiar. She was happy about that. Wearing solid white for this wedding would have felt ghastly, and not for reasons that had anything to do with traditional virginal symbolism. It would have been, perhaps, one bit of twisted irony too many. It would, in fact, have made the entire ceremony feel like a fraud. She had picked out her dress for a reason, and it felt right.
She was also glad that wizards had long moved past the silly business of requiring "consummation." A magical contract was a magical contract, and contracts were made by verbal or written assent. Eventually, in a few decades, Muggles would come around, but this was one way she had to acknowledge that wizards were ahead. She wasn't being physically "claimed," but consenting to an agreement. That, too, would have been too much otherwise, though for a different reason.
Not, of course, that she was going to just go to sleep immediately tonight.
One of the good things about Tom was that he did seem to understand—or share, at least—certain things about her. They were of a similar type in many ways: intelligent, bookish, and hyper-ambitious among those ways. Hermione clung to these similarities, as they were the initial reason that Tom stood out to her despite everything; and she could enjoy ordinary activities with him because he did understand aspects of her that nobody else ever had. It was nice not to have to justify and defend her interests to someone who didn't get it and didn't care to get it.
For example: When Hermione was enthusiastic about a big idea and eager to start working on it, a diversion, vacation, or "romantic getaway" held no appeal. She would not be able to enjoy it, since she had other things she wanted to begin. And Tom felt the same.
The Minister and Bob Ogden—to say nothing of Slughorn—were startled and somewhat dismayed that the "young heroes" wanted to skip a honeymoon or grand tour and get to work immediately. In fact, there was quite a bit of concern and several attempts to persuade them otherwise.
"Your job is going to be very demanding," Ogden had protested to Tom.
It was all to no avail. The two of them strode confidently into the Ministry the Monday after their wedding ceremony, dressed in smart suits and well-tailored robes, smiling pleasantly. It might have even been a sincere smile for both of them.
Tom, of course, was there to begin as the Deputy Advisor to Ogden. Hermione was there to meet and greet the Ministry officials, but also to explain her plans for a nonprofit. Even if some (mostly high-ranking) Ministry employees had personal conflicts of interest, they would have family members who did not. She needed to get the word out, and she needed to make contacts of her own. She still did not have any friends in this time other than him. She had always heard that the best way to make friends was to be around people with similar interests, but she had always had difficulty finding people like her. Hopefully, now that she was an adult and out of Hogwarts, that would be different.
With school out, Slughorn was taking advantage of the opportunity to show off his prize pupils. He bustled about the building, his name—or theirs—a password to almost anywhere he wanted to be, including, it seemed, the office of the Minister himself.
"Of course I can set aside a few minutes!" Spencer-Moon exclaimed. "First day, after all. Definitely come in."
Hermione and Tom filed into the office. She tried to control her face, but it was difficult. This was quite an opulent place, with an elegantly carved desk of some sort of dark wood, thick velvety rugs, richly upholstered furniture, classically painted magic portraits, and exquisite magical instruments the likes of which she had only ever seen in Dumbledore or Slughorn's offices.
She looked expressively at Tom, eyebrows raised. He met her gaze and smirked.
The Minister was talking pleasantries with Slughorn. His head was turned and he did not have his eyes on either Hermione or Tom. As they settled their gaze upon him, Hermione caught something in her peripheral vision.
Tom was staring at the preoccupied Minister with a decidedly predatory gleam in his eyes. She might have imagined it, but she thought she saw them momentarily flash red.
She quickly looked away.
End Notes: I didn't want to "DH Epilogue" everyone's future (that thing is a mere suggestion, as far as I'm concerned), but if you are interested in reading more of my own headcanon about Tom and Hermione in this AU, check out my fic "A Marked Deck." It's not a true sequel, but a series of short scenes occurring after this story. It isn't going to answer all of the questions I've raised, and especially not "Is the wizarding world really better off?" and "What happens with the Horcrux?" I want to leave those questions open to reader interpretation and preference.
Alternatively, you can decide for yourselves what outcomes you prefer about everything. I know that the last bit is very suggestive, even ominous, but I think it's best that I end this story here.
Thank you so much for reading. It's been great.
I've drawn a picture of "Minister Tom." It's on my Tumblr: betagyre-penname DOT tumblr DOT com /post/139747627309/i-am-a-writer-and-crafter-not-an-artist-i-draw