Chapter Text
AUTHOR NOTES: I love all reviews, even the bad ones. Not a whole lot will be canon, or accurate, or according to the book. I take MANY liberties in order to write a unique story. Trying not to waste your time rewriting the same story lines we’ve seen on Archive Of Our Own and fanfiction.net! Also, I tend to focus on dialogue and new plot points, not so much going 3,000 words in-depth about “already existing” spells/artifacts/characters or explaining what’s already happened in the books! ALSO- I would LOVE if my readers took the liberty of sending me mood boards or drawings or renderings of my characters! I want to deviate from the Hermione and Dark Lord that we know... let's see if you like it!
So I hope you enjoy!
Hermione awoke to the sound of a faint cry.
It wasn’t the kind of cry she had been accustomed to during the war. Those were wrecked with anguish, blood-curdling calls into the night that would never leave her ears. This cry was soft, waning ever so slightly. It was a cross between a sharp wail and a soft hum, the sound bouncing off the walls and drifting to her.
She rose from her bed, an unfamiliar mess of blood-red satin sheets and a thick duvet and followed the sound out of her room. “My room…” she wondered aloud. This was certainly not her room she remembered. Her home was a small one-bedroom flat, and it nearly fit in the square footage of the bedroom she just walked out of. She desperately felt for her wand, but it was strapped to her leather holster around her thigh (as it always was) and she sighed a noise of relief. Her body felt weird, her mind felt like it had been sucked into a vortex and then thrown back into the cradle of her skull.
At least she had her wand. Nothing would harm her as long as she had her magic.
Her wand smoothly cast a Lumos, lighting her path down the long, winding hallway. There were large, ornate candelabras hanging from the high, vaulted ceilings, but they seemed to be charmed to let out low light for the time of night that it was. Only shadows were cast, and she could hardly see her hand in front of her face. Only someone highly familiar with their surroundings would be able to navigate this dwelling.
She stopped in front of a door where the cries were coming from. The entire hallway and doorways were covered in a dark black wallpaper, small markings magicked to shine ever so lightly in a silver shine. Even the soft carpet under her bare feet felt expensive. The last time she had been in a home this opulent, it had been Malfoy Manor when she was sixteen years old.
That was almost a decade ago, but the impressiveness of the home still stayed in her mind. This place, even in the dark, rivaled her memory of the Malfoy dwelling- from the candlelight-ridden ceilings to the expensive carpet beneath her, she could tell this was far nicer than her own humble dwellings.
Without another thought, she pushed open the door. The cries were more like mewls now, but it was a steady call to her. Hermione couldn’t explain it but as soon as she opened the door, her heart seemed to leap out of her chest, and something was inexplicably dragging her towards the ivory crib. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a nightlight, and there, in a delicate wooden crib, was the source of the wails. The baby’s tiny face was red, his small fists clenched tightly. Hermione’s heart ached at the sight. She reached into the crib, her movements gentle as she lifted the baby into her arms. The moment their skin touched, the cries began to subside, replaced by soft, hiccupping breaths.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Hermione murmured, her voice soft and soothing as she rocked the baby. She looked down at his cherubic face, searching for any semblance of recognition, but found none. Her thoughts were a tumultuous whirlwind, each question more pressing than the last. How had she gotten here? Why was she here? And who was this child she was holding?
She held the baby, clad in a soft wool romper, close to her chest as she swayed back and forth. She was in a nightgown, something silky and soft and not the per usual for herself- but she couldn’t deny how comfortable she was in it. It felt almost natural. Even holding the baby in her arms, the motions of rocking him, swaddling him comforting him… it was so natural, as if she had dressed like every night, as if she had held this baby a hundred times before.
It was mind-boggling. Hermione couldn’t make sense of any of this. “What’s your name?” Hermione spoke softly down to the baby. She willed herself to remember- to recall any kind of memory that would make this all make sense. Who was this baby? Whose house was this? Why was she so familiar with the baby?
The baby cooed softly back at her, a grin going over his face. He couldn’t have been more than three months old, could he? He had no teeth, just a soft swoosh of black hair atop his head. His eyes were a dark black with small flicks of gray, a most peculiar eye color for a child. She felt lost when she looked into his eyes. What did he know that she didn’t?
“Maman?” A soft knock followed the small voice. Hermione looked worriedly towards the door because anyone in the world could be coming through that door. Maman? Someone was looking for their mom… maybe there were more kids in the house and there was a mother to be found- somewhere.
Hearing the French endearment made Hermione’s heart squeeze. She had called her mother by maman, and it was always a fond memory when she thought of how quickly her mom would heed her calls. It was perhaps a million years ago… but she still held the memories close to her heart. She shook her head to make those thoughts disappear.
“Who’s there?” She called out nervously. “I’m…” How would she explain to someone that she had suddenly woken up in a room she didn’t recognize, wandered around a home she didn’t know, and now she was cuddling onto a baby that she absolutely didn’t know? No explanation was going to be good enough.
The door slowly creaked open, as if to give her time to situate herself, and a small boy came into view. He was standing in the hallway; the candlelight casting shadows over his pale face. He was stoic-looking and neatly dressed in a pajama set and robe tied tightly about him- it was almost comical. He looked like a dapper gentleman, someone dressed for bedtime in the rimes of flapper girls and Gatsby- his hair was still immaculately styled, as though he went to bed every night so fashionably.
“Maman?” he echoed.
“Um…” she faltered, looking down at the baby in her hands and then looking back at him, “I’m Hermione.” She let out defeatedly. She was going to prattle on about her circumstance and confusion and predicament, but he stepped forward and his presence suddenly much closer than before.
The boy smiled then. “I don’t call you that. Maman is better.” He took measured steps into the room until he was in front of her. He reached one of his hands out, one that she didn’t take, and it fell on her wrist in what felt like a consoling manner. “That’s what you called your mother, right? Maman.” He smiled shortly.
Hermione started to break out into a sweat. Yes, she had called her mother that. How would he have known if she hadn’t been the one to tell him? During war times, she had wiped her parents’ memories of her... and when she had gone back to reverse the spell, they seemed so content with their lives. Why should she disturb the peaceful, magic-free life they were living? She was wracked with PTSD and paranoia from being a fighter for so long, and she always lived with the idea that one day another dark lord would rise, and she would follow Harry and the Order back into the pits of hell.
Her parents deserved a better life than that. They deserved peace.
The boy looked at her curiously, his dark black eyes piercing through her. He carried himself with a sophisticated air, as though he were an elderly gentleman trapped in a little kid’s body. “Father said you came home today, but you were out of sorts. I had to listen at his door, he was talking to Uncle Thad.” He muttered more to himself than to her. “I waited by your door until after sunset, just in case you would wake and wonder where I was.” His grip tightened just slightly. “Father forbade me from waking you myself. And Jipsy has been in charge of Marvolo in your absence, so it wasn’t like he was going to wake you up.” When he said the name Marvolo, Hermione could barely hold herself upright. It brought on a myriad of emotions, ranging from wild anger at the dark lord that held that name to a squeeze at her heart- the name also made her brim with happiness, and she couldn’t identify why.
Hermione looked down at the baby in her arms. Marvolo. Her heart did another squeeze. “His name is Marvolo.” Hermione spoke her thoughts out loud.
The boy let his hand fall from her wrist. “Well… yes.” He walked around her in a circle, as if he were studying her for a science project. “Are you feeling alright, maman? Should I wake Father?”
“No!” She fired back before thinking. Father could be anyone. He could be an enemy, a stranger, someone she knew but couldn’t remember… she wasn’t ready to meet him. She needed more information. She needed her damn memories!
The child took a step back at the change in her tone of voice. Hermione composed herself quickly and sent him a reassuring smile. “I just meant to say, let’s spend this time just us.” He looked skeptically at her, but his need for her attention won out whatever logical thinking was happening in his mind. “You said earlier that Jipsy was taking care of him in my absence… where did I go? How long was I gone?”
He peered up at her with dark eyes, the undercurrent of skepticism coming back up. He was highly intelligent for his age, that was for certain, but all she could hope was that his perceived love for her would be enough to make him see past the farce that she was. In war times, she had learned many tricks to defeat the enemy. Not just her plethora of creative spells, curses, and hexes was the weapon of choice. Sometimes manipulation worked better than brute force. As guilty as she felt for using it on a child, she knew that this method was the best option in her current predicament. “I am your maman, right?” He nodded slowly, his eyes weary and his body language getting defensive. “I am just… confused. My memories aren’t very reliable right now.” Because she remembered a life of solitude in her small apartment- no children, no husband, no sprawling Manor. Her body even felt different. Her breasts were full and tender to any touch- like they were going to fall off at any moment. Her usually wickedly stiff back was relaxed, and she felt timber for the first time in years.
Harry and Ron weren’t here, but she could still feel them in the back of her mind. Her Auror work seemed so far away at the moment. As if it was something she had done two lifetimes ago., even though one of her last memories was clocking off at work and going home to her small apartment. They were real. All of her memories of them together at Hogwarts, fighting Voldemort his Death Eaters, the Yule Ball, setting Sirius free, growing out of teenhood and becoming functional adults… that happened, she knew it did.
But now as she stood holding this baby boy named Marvolo, her heart was telling that this was reality. She was a mom, even if she couldn’t remember being pregnant or giving birth. Somehow, some way… it was true.
What was yesterday? When did that life stop existing for her? When did this one start? Was she forty-five years suddenly? Was she a teen again? Did she somehow wake up in the future? She worked with ghastly dark magic at work, often handling dangerous relics and unknown magical artifacts. She knew anything was possible.
The boy shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe, seemingly wrangling with his emotions. Part of him must have been screaming to go get his father, that something was off with the situation. But another part of him, the part tied so closely to his memory of his maman, told him to stay and help her through whatever ailment she was suffering from. He let out a deep breath. “This is Marvolo, he was born on the 4th of February. So that makes him sixteen weeks old. You are his mother. I am Ophiuchus.” He raised his head the mention of his name, not one lock of dark hair moving. “I am seven years of age, born on the 7th of September. You are not my mother.” He gritted his teeth. “But I love you very much and I want you to be my mother.” The way he proclaimed his love for her was so innocent and sweet, it nearly brought tears to her eyes. But his information only brought more questions to the forefront of her mind. Who was the father of Marvolo? Of Ophiuchus? Were they brothers? Where was Ophiuchus’ mother? Also, if Marvolo was really her son, why would she give him such a cursed name?
“Ophiuchus.” Hermione tried the name out on her lips. “That is a powerful name. A long name.” It was the name of a dark serpent God, actually- she wasn’t sure why his parents would give him a name like that, either.
He smiled sweetly. “Yes, but you call me mon coeur.” There was a prideful tint to his voice when he announced it. Hermione’s heart sank just a little deeper. Her parents called her that- that was their special name for her as a child. It meant my heart. Why would she share it with this boy? “Father dislikes it. Perhaps he thinks it will make me a less powerful wizard. But I am very powerful.” His voice darkened at the last word, and as if to show her his true prowess, flames flicked at the corners of the room in unison.
“Ophiuchus!” Hermione exclaimed. That kind of fire wielding, wandless and wordless, was dangerous- and for a child to wield it? He could suffocate them in the flames in seconds if he didn’t have total control over it.
“Mon coeur.” He corrected, looking at her expectantly.
“Mo-mon coeur,” she nearly had to spit the French endearment out, “stop that!”
He did so at once.
Ophiuchus ran at her with arms wide open, a tight hug with a sigh of relief from him. “I knew you would remember me! You were only gone for a month but maybe wherever you went… made it feel longer than that.”
Hermione patted his head awkwardly, not knowing how to truly handle him. He seemed to be begging to be loved, sucking up any ounce of affection and kindness from her. It almost made her heart hurt. “A month…” she mused to herself. So she had left her “family” for a month, and the most intelligent child she had ever met didn’t have any idea where she’d gone. He had to have snooped around and asked questions, but he still didn’t have an answer for his disappearance, and neither did she. “What day is it?” She asked suddenly. Marvolo was born on the February 4th, he was sixteen weeks old today… so it was June? When she went to bed last night, it was January 10th. It made no sense.
“Well, it’s past midnight, so technically today is Thursday, June the 6th.” He added as an afterthought. “You left exactly one month ago. Father argued with you for days leading up to you leaving, and then when you left, he didn’t speak to anyone for what felt like forever. No visitors were allowed over, not even my tutors. The only voice I heard was the house elf Jipsy’s. And our house elves are quite daft.”
Hermione sat down in the reclining chair next to the baby’s crib. Where had she gone? Why for a whole month? Didn’t she love her children, both biological and not?
Was any of this real? Because one month ago she was in Muggle London, living the same boring life she had been living for the years following the last War. A certain mundane calmness had taken over her life and sometimes she didn’t know what to do with herself. Her friends and classmates were starting families or had moved far away from the mess that the British Wizarding World was in. She had been in limbo for years.
And now suddenly she was a mom, living in a different area than she was familiar with. The magic in the area felt different. It was in the air and it was heavy… almost commanding and stifling. It was powerful.