Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Colony of North Carolina
October, 1768

The worst John Grey could do was release her from his employment.

Be that as it may, he needed her marginally more than she needed him.

The man spared her another side-glance of bafflement. Her insistence of wearing attire more fitted for a young man displeased him greatly.

More so than her uncomely habit of speaking her mind.

But for God's sake, they were traipsing through woods and backcountry. No way was she going to flounce about in four or five layers of traditional nonsense. What if she lost her footing, fell in a river, and drowned because her heavy woolen petticoats were stupidly thirsty? Upon returning to civilization, she would begrudgingly redon the stays, and dresses, and the painful buckled slippers.

Not the bonnet, though. She may or may not have found a nice warm spot for it in the hearth of her room at the last tavern she and her small party visited.

Out here, she dressed for practicality.

Many things about Hermione ran contradictory to the norm, and her mere presence made everyone quite uncomfortable. Since Lord John Grey and his son were the two people she spent the most time with, they suffered more than anyone else. William, his son and her student, had gotten over the novelty of her a little while ago due to the fact he was young enough to not care for longer than necessary. Their small party had been travelling together privately for more than five minutes and, therefore, William had entirely forgotten how normal women of this era behave.

Back at Salem, he’d been given a brief reminder of how well and truly odd his governess was. Nevertheless, that was more than three seconds ago, so young sir William quickly resolved into his former state of believing she was just as wretched and droll as any other governess he’d suffered. To make matters worse, the late Lady John had tragically passed and good deal of busybodies back in Hispaniola were breathing down Grey’s neck, thinking it their destiny in getting the man remarried and with due haste. Having recently come into the man’s employment and seemingly widowed, several fat fingers started pointing at her, believing her to be a fair match for him.

With respect, those fat fingers were lazy and few and far between. Their argument of Hermione being a fit bride for Grey was based upon superficial notions of her attractiveness and being well-educated. She’d make a fine Lady John and, most importantly, an exceptional stepmother to the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere.

Thankfully, the majority did not see her in that light at all. In fact, many of them—them being the high societal plantation owners—thought ill of her. Distrusted her. Who was she? Where did she come from? A lone, white English woman without a shilling to her name and no family to speak of, emerging from the fibrous, uninhabitable depths of the island.

Despite the very few people who spoke well of her in Hispaniola, out of all the things William forgot or brushed away, Hermione being a potential betrothed to his father couldn’t be banished from his fears. His misbehaving and already disrespectful attitude escalated. The stubbornness, good God, and then there were the pranks he pulled on her. He’d hoped, by the time they made port in the colonies, she’d be scurrying off like a wounded, hysterical ninny.

Oh, how he knew so little of Hermione.

Prepubescent boys didn’t scare her and never had. They could say some mean words, sure, but Hermione was a grown woman and so far beyond crying in lavatories—God, what she’d give for a flushing toilet—that William's indulged, spoiled self did nothing but fuel her aching need to break him. Hermione knew spoiled brats and knew how to crack them like a glowstick. 

She married one, after all, and made him her slave.

Fat lot of good it did her, in the end, unfortunately, but Hermione was certain William didn’t stem from a long history of inbreeding and mental disorders. When he did accept and like her—and he would, damn it—she trusted he won’t try to murder her.

Grey raised his right hand. “We shall make camp here for the night. I say it’s a rather quaint and hospitable clearing.”

He looked to William and then to her, seeking affirmation. What he got was William pouting at the space of saddle between his legs, and Hermione gingerly sliding off her mare like she was an ancient, bowlegged grandmother.

Equestrian, Hermione wasn’t. She hadn’t been on a horse ever. The closest she came to such a stint was that whole thestral business in her fifth year, and she still had nightmares about that.

Refusing to let her walk the entire way from Salem, Lord Grey insisted they purchase a horse for her to ride.

Hermione let out a pained sigh—her thighs screaming bloody fucking murder—and absorbed her surroundings. Certainly, she’d have some nightmares tonight. She loathed camping. Lost a taste for it some thirteen years ago.

In Salem, Lord Grey had been torn on what to do with her. His initial plan had to been to purchase a bond servant who could accompany her to Virginia. 

Hermione firmly refused the idea of a bond servant and claimed she could make her merry way on her own just fine, thanks ever so much.

Grey laughed at her. Well and truly laughed. A full, ungentlemanly, belly laugh. It was the first time she had heard him make such a sound, and she would’ve joined in the fun if she hadn’t been so affronted. He believed she spoke in jest. God damn it, she could take care of herself!

After a bit of a squabble and couple glasses of atrocious wine at a tavern, he divulged his worries.

He feared if he didn’t get her to Virginia and locked away at his inherited estate, men would take notice of her. More than they already had.

"The Colonies harbor many unwed men, and you look like a Dresden figurine come to life, Madam Christakos. Not to mention you have all your teeth..."

Yes, Lord John Grey dreaded the possibility of her marrying some semi-wealthy merchant she could meet in passing on her lone way to Virginia and then disappearing to some awful, undignified place like New Jersey. He’d be in the unattractive position of hiring another governess. Hermione was the sixth in the last two years because his son was nothing short of a monster.

Hermione knelt at the creek, removing her gloves to wash her hands and dab cool water on her neck. William joined her, crouching down. Under his breath, he whispered, “I hate you with every ounce of my soul, Madam Christakos.”

"Theoretically, the soul is more like a vaporous gas. You would not want to measure it in ounces or pounds. If you did, your soul would have negative weight as would your claim." She dipped her hands into the creek again, frowning in contemplation while allowing small bits of magic pulse through her fingertips.

"You know what I mean," he hissed, his pale cheeks reddening in either embarrassment or anger.

How long would William’s ignorance last regarding his father’s private life? It was unlikely Grey would remarry, and Hermione wouldn’t expose herself to the same fate either. If on the off chance she did take up another spouse, she wouldn’t do it here. Men were unappealing. They were unwashed, smelly, and toothless. Lice-ridden, frighteningly misogynistic, and incredibly fragile. A bout of common cold could easily lay waste to them.

Besides, the old binding magic keeping Druella Black’s ring fused to her finger told Hermione her husband still lived. The potent enchantment recognized her as Draco Malfoy’s wife. No matter he had yet to be born.

Removing her hands from the creek, a plump catfish squirming in her grip, she smiled genially at William. The boy’s mouth dropped open, and his blue cat-like eyes widened in awe.
“H-How did you do that?”

Hermione shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. “Magic.”

“Will you teach me?”

“Magic?” Her brows raised, her smile thinning and curling into a smirk.

His eyes rolled. “No. Catching a fish with your hands.”

“You are far from an amicable student, young William, concerning the subjects I am currently teaching you. Adding another would be absurd.”

“I’ll have my father make you.”

“Your father can't make me to do a damned thing.”

The boy gaped at her. “I’m going to tell him you curse and do so in front of me.”

“I do not give two fucks.” Hermione stood. “Now behave yourself, or we won’t get to play our secret game tonight.”

"Ugh!"

Hermione came upon Grey who was in the midst of organizing rocks and wood for a firepit.

“I caught a fish,” she said.

Grey narrowed his gaze at the fat bounty in her hands. “Quite,” he muttered slowly.

She pressed her lips together, refusing to appear embarrassed. “Would you happen to know how to prepare it? I'll mind the fire.”

Hermione could debone the poor, little bugger with magic. In fact, there were many tasks she could fulfill without her wand, but she had to be careful and not make herself a public nuisance. The small, humble magical community of Hispaniola refused to welcome or help her. Being an English, white Muggle-Born, they disliked her greatly for what her non-magical counterparts were doing to the Muggle land and people. It was proposed she find a way to England, but they would not assist her or provide a wand for ease. In the meantime, she best refrain from expelling powerful bouts of magic, especially in front of Muggles and dear Gods, do not try to change history.

That last part had been said with a sneer and a look of revulsion directed at her exposed forearm.

“You can catch a fish with your bare hands, yet not know how to clean it.” Grey took the wriggling, scaly creature from her grasp, the corner of his lips curling. “Here, I thought you knew everything and knew how to do everything.”

With magic, she could. Without, no. Among all her Muggle skills, gutting and deboning a goddamned fish wasn’t among them. She was born a miracle baby to upper-middle-class dentists and pampered sufficiently, thank you very much, but it's no wonder she lacked friends until she was twelve.

“Alas, my lady-like sensibilities will not allow me to kill this poor thing.”

It’s not a wonder she didn’t have any now. 

Grey put up with her because she made herself indispensable to his situation. His son needed a highly educated governess who didn’t scare easy. Hermione just needed Grey for a paycheck. The moment she saved enough money to embark on a safe voyage to England, she was out of there and good riddance to them both. This was a dreadful time to be in the Americas, and who knows when Grey would return to England? If he would ever. A war was coming in, like, nine years, so he might die.

And if the American Revolutionary War didn’t kill him, the laws concerning sodomy would.

Grey didn’t know she knew this about him, and Hermione would never say anything. She had an equally damning one of her own, and neither of their situations could be helped or stopped. They were what they were, and that was that.

“Lady-like,” Grey said, giving her breeks a shrewd look and took the fish from her. “You?”

“Let me start the fire,” she offered. “Then I will catch a couple of more fish for us. I do think young William has had enough salted pork and hard tack.”

“I can hunt,” countered Grey. "I believe I spotted a great deal of cotton tail not far back, and there are deer aplenty in these parts."

Hermione refrained from grimacing at the possibility of eating Thumper and Bambi. She came to 1768 a vegetarian but had to revert to pescatarianism given the lack of nutritional options. The further inland they travelled; however, she'd likely have to partake of red meat.

“Perhaps tomorrow. We are all too hungry and fatigued to wait. In the morning, I’ll see if there are any edible berries or mushrooms about. I think I saw some watercress across the creek. That'll serve us well. It helps prevent cancer of the colon and prostate. Did you know?”

John Grey made a scandalized, choking sound.

"Is something the matter?" she asked innocently.

“You are a curiosity.” His eyes narrowed. “I dare say you remind me a great deal of the wife of my friend we are visiting.”

There was no disguising the bitterness on Grey’s tongue at the mention of his friend’s spouse. Further proof the friend in question was someone dear and special and romantically loved. Why else would he insist on making this out-of-the-way journey?

“Perhaps we’re related.” Hermione snickered. More of a joke unto herself. Her ancestry never made it to the Colonies. Her mother immigrated to England from Greece at the age of sixteen. Her father was born to an abusive, alcoholic farmer and a poor, illiterate peasant he picked up on his way out of France after World War II ended.

Grey didn’t join in the fun, his eyes studying her hair before settling on her face. “No, I don’t think so,” he said dismissively. “She has not any kin aside from her husband’s family. You have family, Madam Christakos, and a husband.”

He said the last part accusingly, urging her to further elaborate on her existence.

 “Late husband,” she corrected.

He removed a knife from his pocket and neatly sliced open the catfish. “I am sorry for your loss, Madam Christakos, but I am glad to have you under my employment. You are a good match for William and are the first governess he has not made weep.”

“Ah, well…” Hermione channeled a bit of magic through the flint, igniting a fire before finding a nearby, flattened rock to rest her bum. “I know a great deal about young men.”

Grey frowned at her rather impressive fire, eyebrows raised. “Do you have brothers?”

Hermione reflected on the the Weasley brothers, Harry, and the twins her parents adopted from Ethiopia eight years ago. “I suppose you could say I have eight.”

“Good Lord, do you jest?”

Shaking her head no, she smiled. Her aching heart sunk low into her stomach, dejected and bitter. Hermione missed them and knew she wouldn’t make it back to the Weasleys, Harry, or her parents in time for Christmas.

After the whole Australia debacle, she promised her parents she’d never miss another holiday with them.

“Are you all right, Madam Christakos?”

Hermione sniffed, removing a kerchief from her pocket and primly dabbing under her eyes. “I’m thinking of my husband. My brothers never did like him. They said he would break my heart, and they were right.”

Grey reached out, attempting to chastely squeeze her forearm out of comfort. Hermione shied away from his scaly, slime-ridden hand. He gave her an expression of apology and replied, “Your husband, like my late wife, had no control over his departure. Although perhaps his passing was a relief in some ways. You’ve alluded how ill he became. At least his suffering was not further prolonged.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, imaging Draco and the torture she’d inflict upon his person the moment she returned to her time. Oh, she’d make him beg for death, that bloody bastard.

Hot, boiling magic bubbled beneath her skin as it often did when her temper threatened to get the better of her. “I would like to be alone for a while. I will return soon enough.”

Removing herself from the rock and Lord John Grey’s presence, she walked the length of the creek until arriving at a pleasant little spot. A safe distance away from the water where she could privately take a piss and one other unlady-like thing whilst contemplating a sufficient time to privately bathe.

Once her business was finished and buried, she sunk her hands into the soft sod beneath her and channeled her pent-up magic into the ground. Focusing on goodness and love and memories of chocolate. Willing her power to create rather than destroy. Going “dark-side” wouldn’t do her any favors here.

Eyes closing, magic pulsed out of her, leaving her keyed up, clammy, and unsatisfied. Like she just endured the worst sex ever.

Opening her eyes, a strangled sound escaped her. A mix between a laugh and sob at the sight of the six-foot cactus, her magic birthed. Sniffling, she raised up and pricked her finger on one of the needles.

“You don’t belong here at all, do you?” She grimaced. “Neither do I if it makes you feel better.”

“What in God’s good name is that?”

Enter from stage right William Viscount Ashness, ninth Earl of Ellesmere.

Her antagonist came into her spotlight, gawking up at the Carnegiea.

“A Saguaro,” she replied. “It belongs to the cacti family. They typically grow in arid regions.”

“This is not in an arid region.”

Smudges of dirt marked his cheeks and nose. Hermione rubbed at them with her kerchief. He tried to shy away from her, but she held him steady. “You…” Rub, rub, rub. “Are a genius, Sir William. And here your father insists you still need academic guidance.”

Her student glumly glared at her, his bottom lip almost protruding. Devil spawn, surely he was, but Hermione couldn’t deny he was a cute kid. Her ministrations softened and when his face was clean, she grabbed a comb from her pocket and started making work of his untidy, russet locks.

“Why are its arms knotted like that?” he asked, blue eyes narrowed in skepticism.

Her Saguaro had three arms, and each one was twisted into thick, coiled bunches.

“Perhaps it’s stressed.”

William gnawed on his bottom lip pensively. “If the Saguaro is meant for desert climate, will it not die here?”

“It will.”

“Good,” he clipped. “It is hideous.”

Unsurprisingly, Hermione hardly slept that night. Curled up by the fire, every time her eyelids drooped shut, the ghosts of Death Eaters and Snatchers came into view. The scar on her forearm tingled and burned. Her ribs, lungs, and heart felt like they were being twisted and crushed. Yet Hermione knew it was all in her head. The sensations were echoes of a time she could never forget. And despite the trauma, she didn’t want to. They were a part of her. Seared into her bones and intertwined into the helixes of her DNA. The scars and memories were as necessary to her as the magic in her veins, the curls of her hair, and the freckles on her face. None of it could be undone.

Hermione stiffened and then relaxed, opening her eyes to see William staring down at her.

“Are you asleep?” he asked.

She blinked up at him, her lips curling in amusement, but she said nothing.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

Bad dreams meant actually sleeping. “I suppose I did. Did you?”

He nodded and crouched down beside her. Hermione curled onto her side, lifting her arm and beckoning him close to her. He eased himself into the curve of her body, and she held him close. Since their leave from Hispaniola, she’d snuggled William a handful of times and always at night. Come morning, he’d pretend it never happened. Hermione allowed the pretense. He missed his mother. As a woman with a weakness for sad, broken boys, she let the Mrs. Weasley side of her envelope him in comfort and kisses.

Hermione combed back the hair at his temple and laid a soft, motherly smooch there while internally thanking God and Merlin she and Draco agreed having children could wait.

“Do you know any more good stories, Madam Christakos?” asked William, interrupting her thoughts. “I really liked The Princess Bride.”

“I know,” she started, propping her head up with her elbow, “the best stories, but I really ought not deter from the criteria your father has provided me. I would not want him to think I was filling your head with Papist nonsense.”

“Who’s going to tell him?” She heard the grin in his voice. “Besides, you never mentioned that Princess Buttercup and Wesley were Catholics.”

“The creator of the tale was actually a Jew.”

“Dear Lord, that is worse.” William cackled quietly. “I promise not to tell Papa”

“See that you don’t.”

“Tell me something else.”

Hermione cleared her throat, and he sighed.

“Will you please tell me another story, Madam Christakos?" he reiterated. "I think I would like a fantastical tale of horror and bloodshed and war.”

“William…”

“Forgive me,” he hastily inserted. “You’re a woman. What would you know about such things?”

Glaring at the back of his head, she tickled his ribs. “All right, you. Let me weave you a glorious tale about a brave wizard named Harry the Brave—”

“Is he a Papist like you?”

“…no…” Apparently, he needed another lesson on the Great Schism.

“What was he then?”

“A wizard.”

“A son of Satan,” concluded William.

“His affiliation is more pagan than anything else.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not…” Hermione let out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Harry the Brave had two friends. Ronald the Strategist, and…Jean the Wise.”

“More children of Satan, I gather.”

She rolled her eyes, unable to help the smile tugging at her lips. “Well, maybe Ronald the Strategist.” She combed her fingers through his hair. “You did a good game of Battleship earlier.”

He snorted. “You won. You always win.”

“You are improving, and I think it will help you beat your father at chess someday.”

“You don’t always win when you play against him. In fact, you mostly lose.”

“Oh, but I do not love chess, and your father is a worthy opponent, indeed.”

“Did your father teach you? Or your governess?”

“My father taught me Battleship. No, a good friend taught me chess. I could never beat him. He was completely barbaric.”  

“A friend that was a him?” he inquired, suspicious. “I assume you mean a lover.”

“A gentleman never makes assumptions about a lady.” He was right, but that was neither here nor there. “To bed with you, I dare say.”

“I am in bed.”

“Not my bed. Your bed."

He turned over onto his other side, facing her and asked in a small voice, “What if I have another nightmare?”

Damn it, his face was filthy again.

And he smelled of fish, mud, and the unmistakable pubescent boy scent. Like stale corn chips had a baby with a leftover Taco Bell burrito. 

“You can sleep here,” she started, careful, “but you have to be nice to me tomorrow.”

Eyes rolling dramatically, he groaned, “You ask too much, Madam.” He got to his feet and crept back towards his tent. “Do have a pleasant night.”

Chapter Text

Over a tin cup of strong cider, Hermione stared blurrily at the cloth-base chess set. Yawning, she flicked a finger at one, two, three of her chess pieces, toppling them over. And then she drained her cup and toppled over herself.

"You win," she mumbled at Grey, burrowing herself deeper inside her blanket.

"We just started the game, and it is poor sportsmanship to resign after making all but a few moves."

"Do we or do we not have to be up early in the morning to arrive at your friend's at a decent hour?"

Grey righted the chess pieces, avoiding her face. "I suppose I'm nervous. I did not ask to be invited, nor did I send word of our arrival. My dear friend won't be expecting us."

Hermione mentally placed herself in the shoes of a New World immigrant who was surrounded by Indigenous tribes and tax-hungry British governors. "I do hope he doesn't shoot us dead when stumbling upon his property before getting a good look at you."

"His wife very well may shoot me anyway."

Hermione peeled back enough of her blanket to stare at him, the flames of the fire dancing across his face and making those already pretty blue eyes shine. "Why?"

The man blushed. "She has her reasons, I imagine."

"Are any of them valid?" Like, was Grey going to try and steal her most precious bit of property?

Hermione then imagined Adrian Pucey—a good and very gay friend of Draco's—coming into their home unannounced with intent to seduce her husband. 

Oh, wait, that did happen.

And the only reason Pucey walked away alive that night was because he was cool with her watching. Hermione was not allowed to join in the fun because Draco was the only one allowed to touch her, and Pucey would've rather died than do just that.

Hermione had the distinct impression that wasn't going to happen tomorrow.

"The Frasers are...unique," he said gently.

Okay, maybe things would happen tomorrow. If Grey gave her enough notice, she'd keep the kid busy and out of the way.

"Do you ever get word in Greece about the Jacobite Rising?"

Weird direction to take the conversation, but sure. Hermione had a feeling she needed to be alert for this conversation, so she reluctantly sat up and gave Grey her full attention. "Which one?"

Grey smiled in relief at having not to recite a history lesson. "I first met Mr. and Mrs. Fraser right before the Battle of Prestonpans. Quite honestly, we were not immediate friends, Mr. Fraser being a Jacobite and his wife an English sympathizer of the cause. There I was, a young and foolish solider. When I met Mr. Fraser again—Jamie—it was in prison. I had been made governor whilst he was serving his sentence."

Hermione did not like where this was going.

Surely, John Grey didn't...

He wouldn't...

"In time, we became friends."

"Friends." Hermione swallowed the bile lingering at the back of her throat. "Because that's what you do as the governor in prison. You become friends with prisoners."

Grey was too lost in nostalgia to take notice of her apprehension. "Before I had taken up post, the governor prior had dined with Mr. Fraser on occasion. I did, as well—"

"Why him?"

"Pardon?"

"Why him? What is so special about this Mr. Jamie Fraser that two prison governors singled him out?" Hermione cocked her head, eyeing him shrewdly. "Or were you and the former governor enjoying tea and pudding with the others?"

She swore to herself she wouldn't bring up or try to trap Grey into revealing his secret to her because that would be a bitch-move. It wasn't her business and if he told her, it was because he trusted her completely.

Grey must've read her thoughts on her face, for he began to look queasy. "M-Madam, I'm not sure what you mean—"

 "I am not naïve or ignorant on what can and do take place in prisons, Lord John. Was this man taken advantage of in anyway while under your supervision? Because if he was, then I can't..." She shook her head, scrambling to find more cider to pour into her cup but in the end, forgoing the cup and drinking straight from the bottle. After taking a healthy swallow, she continued, "If you did, I'd have to string you up and leave you here for the bears." She hiccupped. "And I would be taking William with me."

A series of emotions pulsed over his face before his lips finally settled on a tight, but not an unpleasant smile. "Where would you take him, Madam Christakos?"

"Far, far away."

"I pray, do specify."

She patted her chest and hiccupped again. "New Jersey."

That not unpleasant smile turned into a broad grin. "That is quite far."

"We'll live with my second husband who is kind of a wealthy merchant. He married me for my teeth, so it's twue wuv."

He laughed, dropping his head and shaking it. "I can't picture young Willie's grandmother being too happy with this arrangement."

"She can come, too."

He stole the bottle from her. "How much have you had because I think you've had enough."

Hermione drifted her foggy gaze to the chess cloth, a fun and naughty memory emerging. One she made with Ron eleven or so years ago. "Let's play strip chess," she blurted and then promptly covered her mouth, horrified. She shook her head violently and touched her chest. "I apologize. That was...oh, my God. For a second, I forgot where I was and who I was with. You are right, You are completely right, I have had enough. I remember now why I typically abstain from too much drink..." She crawled out of her blanket. "And we were having such a lovely conversation about New Jersey and your-your prison friend who we are seeing tomorrow. His wife was going to shoot you, right? I'll be sure to tell William you died well—"

"Madam, I'm not entirely sure what strip chess is—"

"Oh, thank God." Hermione flipped her blanket completely over her head and tipped over, curling up on her side. "Good night! Don't let the bed bugs bite!"

"I was discussing with you the matter to which my friend and I—"

"I said good night!"

A mixture of annoyance and amusement filled John Grey which had been a common occurrence since he hired Madam Hermione Christakos. He had hoped to open up to her about some anxieties tonight concerning his visit to Jamie and hope she would reveal a bit of herself in return. His child’s governess was a mystery. She claimed Greek heritage—which accounted for her vague partialness to the Greek Orthodox faith, the dark hair, and sun-stained skin—but her accent was unnervingly English and only heard in the tidier parts of Surrey. If her family had the funds to hire a proper English tutor for their daughter, said English tutor would enforce her own dialect.

Furthermore, John was certain her heritage was not rooted firmly in the Mediterranean. One of her parents most certainly was Anglo and fair-skinned. Prone to freckling in the sun, even, and likely English born.

Was it her father or her mother?

Christakos was her married name, and John had yet to ask about her father’s name which hadn’t seemed necessary at the time. Perhaps it was now.

“Dear Hermione, what is your maiden name?” he asked, knowing she was not asleep just yet.

The fabric enveloping her shifted, and he heard a yawn, smacking of lips, and then a giggle. “Christakos.”

“I said your maiden name.”

“I married my dear uncle’s son.”

“Ah, I see. I do hope he was a fine cousin and a fine husband. Your mother, though, what was her name?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione uncovered just enough of her face to show him a twinkling brown eye—the color of warm, liquid chocolate— and a smirk. “Helena.”

“Helena,” he said, testing the name on his tongue. “The most beautiful woman in the world, according to legend.”

Hermione’s smirk softened into a genuine, dreamy smile. “She is. I miss her so much.” Her lashes fluttered shut. “Now do be quiet. I’m exhausted. Your son is exhausting.”

“Forgive me. Yes, do rest now.”

Her features relaxed, the small divot between her brows melting away. Somehow John was supposed to believe this woman was one and thirty years old. For God’s sake, she looked barely twenty, and her short stature hardly helped. Yet, despite her apparent youthfulness and lack of height, she had the miraculous ability to make William yield.

John was aware Madam Christakos had created a safe, secret space for William where the boy could enter when he needed something beyond a father’s love. He knew his boy would sporadically go to her at night seeking comfort and a type of protection only nurturing women could provide. She would hold him close, tell him stories, and kiss him like he was her own flesh and the fruit of her own womb.

These actions both warmed his heart and worried it. The life and occupation of a governess were fleeting, and Madam Christakos could not and would not dwell with William forever. At some point, she would have to take leave, whether her time had come to remarry or when William came of age to attend university. John dared not hope he could keep the woman in his employment for that long.

No matter when she moved on, William would be devastated.

For the briefest of moments back in Hispaniola and a millisecond on the ship to the colonies, John did consider proposing marriage to Hermione Christakos, only as a means to provide a good mother for William. Alas, in several short years, the boy would be a man, and he would leave to further his education and fulfill his role as earl.

Leaving John stuck with her.

Blessedly, the madam did not display that kind of warmth and affection towards him. She could be a delightful conversationalist and rather amusing. He enjoyed the simple and friendly act of talking with her. She was undeniably brilliant, almost dangerously so. A charming lady, yes. Flirtatious, no. Throughout their time together, not once did she soften towards the most wealthy or handsome of gentlemen. On the outside, she appeared rather comfortable in her widowhood, but bits of her true self could not help but leak out of her. The woman felt deeply betrayed and hurt by her husband’s passing, and John gathered she must’ve loved him very much.

She was young enough, vivacious, and far too pretty to keep ahold of her husband’s ghost for the rest of her days. A lady of her standing and beauty had the potential for a tremendous second chance at having a family of her own. Children had not blessed her first marriage. Perhaps she’d be bountiful on her second whether the union was out of respect, duty, and safety rather than love.

John himself already suffered an obligatory marriage and did not want another. Isobel was a dear, sweet woman. Lovely and gentle and doting. In his own way, John did love her, and her companionship served him well enough. He, in turn, fulfilled his role as her husband in all ways. Nonetheless, he never was whole with her, and God curse him, he felt close to nothing when he received word of her death.

Madam Christakos had secrets. All ladies do, and John had gotten very little out of her. He had hoped the cider would loosen her tongue. However, he was both pleased and relieved to hear about her true feelings concerning William. The two butted heads something fierce, but she cared for the boy and would protect him if needed.

“Get them off now!”

Hermione blinked owlishly at her student. She had only been gone for three minutes. How in God’s name, in that short of time, did the little shit manage to remove his boots and stockings, get leeches stuck to his legs, and be stumbled upon by some backwoods woman?

“In good time,” replied said the woman, her expression one of blatant ire. “Where did you come from?”

Her English accent was relatively posh but unplaceable. Despite her ragged clothing and skirts fastened around her thighs, she was attractive. Her dark hair was gray-streaked and wildly curly. Her healthy, dewy skin the color of ivory.

“Yes, it is best to simply allow them to fall off on their own,” Hermione piped up, walking into the scene, and taking her place, not directly in front of William. Just enough so the stranger understood the boy was under her care. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Would you happen to be Madam Fraser?”

Naturally, the woman gawked at her masculine attire of trousers, knee boots, and a frock.

“I-I am.”

“Splendid. My employer, a friend of your husbands, believed us to have missed a turn. He asked us to stay here while he went in search for direction. How lucky we are you found us instead.” Hermione gestured to William, dying a little inside on how she was meant to introduce him. “This is William, Viscount Ashness, ninth Earl of Ellesmere. I am Madam Hermione Christakos, his governess, and in the employment of Lord John Grey.”

“Get them off! They are vile!” howled William.

“Oh, not so terribly vile. They have their uses,” Mrs. Fraser said, gently and with much apparent strain.

“I don’t care what use they are!” He stamped his feet and glared at Hermione. “Get them off me this instant.”

She put up a hand when Mrs. Fraser made a move to towards boy. “He must learn from his mistakes. I distinctly told him to not remove any clothing from his person. He disobeyed, and here we are.”

“My father will hear about this!”

Unable to help herself, Hermione tilted back her head and laughed.

“You see how she treats me.” He cast wide, pleading blue eyes at Mrs. Fraser. “Will you please help me, Madam Fraser?”

“Do not help him,” Hermione said, still laughing. “Like you said, they’ll fall off on their own.”

“Should we not—”

“No, I don't think so.”

William continued to pin Mrs. Fraser with a look of utter angelic contriteness. His bottom lip began to tremble, and Hermione could practically see Mrs. Fraser’s will break into a thousand pieces.

“Well, maybe just a couple—”

“Be strong. Don't fall for his ploy.”

“They hurt,” he whispered, sniffling.

“Several have already begun to fall off. See?” She pointed at the litter of little bloated beasts at his feet.

For the next several minutes, the two women watched and a waited for the remaining leeches to fall from William’s legs while he muttered threats against Hermione. The air thick with awkwardness must’ve become too much to handle, for Mrs. Fraser broke the silence.

“Christakos,” she started. “That is Greek, I think?”

“Yes.”

“Yet, your accent is of Surrey, England.”

Hermione had already answered this semi-accusation from Grey, but he was well-educated. What did this woman living in the woods know about accents?

“And yours I cannot place.”

Mrs. Fraser pressed her full lips into a pinched smile. “I travelled in my youth.”

“My own governess was English,” Hermione lied. “I was born in Athens.”

“It is beautiful there.” Her lovely golden eyes drifted to Hermione’s wedding ring. “How did you come about in…the employment of Lord John?”

“Her husband croaked, and he left her nothing.” A positively devilish grin broke through William’s puppy-dog façade.

Mrs. Fraser frowned at William’s bluntness. It didn’t really answer her question. However, she nodded gently and threw Hermione a genuine expression of empathy.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Madam Christakos. How long did you get to have him if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Eight years.” Hermione rubbed her right thumb over her wedding ring.

“Eight years?” Mrs. Fraser furrowed her brow, studying Hermione’s face carefully. “Were you married at thirteen?”

“You flatter me so.”

And then Mrs. Fraser did something quite odd. Her lovely, pale hands cupped Hermione’s face and pressed her frigid thumbs to the outside of Hermione’s mouth.

“Your teeth,” Mrs. Fraser whispered, awed, “are exquisite.”

A warm, bloom of pride swelled within Hermione. She sent a quick thanks to her parents for instilling good dental hygiene in her.

“Yours are very nice, as—Agh!”

Those dexterous cold thumbs made their way into Hermione’s mouth, forcing it open. “You have all your teeth and not a single cavity. Your gums are clean and not even a speck of plaque. I haven’t seen teeth like these since…What do you use to clean your teeth, sweetheart?"

Hermione jerked out of Mrs. Fraser’s grasp before the pads of her thumb made contact with the thin, metal wire bonded to six of her bottom teeth.

“Arrowroot powder, peppermint oil, and a pinch of salt. I also use thread to clean between—”

“Are you two quite done talking about teeth?” snapped William.

“Speaking of salt, perhaps it's time.” For the millionth time, Hermione wished for her “bloody beaded-bag” from another life. In 1768, she had to make do with a leather satchel that carried very few, but precious items. Salt being among them. Opening the flap and retrieving the vial, she knelt and sprinkled the white granules onto the leeches.

The bloated beasties fell off almost immediately, leaving itty-bitty, bloody bite marks on the skin of William’s legs. Hermione capped the salt and retrieved another vial, this one of pure alcohol and a small square of clean fabric. Two things she could never have enough when it came to her student. He was always getting hurt.

It wasn’t that he was clumsy. No, he was just goddamned reckless.

“How much blood is there?” asked William, his eyes squeezed shut. He peeled one eye open to look at Mrs. Fraser. “It’s not that I’m afraid of—of blood. It’s only they’re such filthy creatures.”

“Barely a drop,” softly replied Hermione, feeling Mrs. Fraser’s eyes upon her back while dabbing the boy’s legs with the alcohol-soaked fabric. Once she finished, she pressed two fingers to her lips for a kiss, and then peppered them around the tiny pink. “Now you’ll heal that much faster.”

And like that, he fell into her arms, sniffling into her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you will be, William, if you dare put one of those blasted things down the back of my collar.”

Hermione reached behind her and grabbed his wrist. Standing, she plucked the leech from his fist with two fingers, brought the ugly, overly-fed bugger close to the boy’s face, and crushed it in the palm of her hand. Goo and blood dripped from the creases of her fist, and William paled and looked about to faint. When she opened her palm, he turned the side and vomited.

It took all her willpower not to join him.

That was very gross.

But super alpha. She had to stay strong and not shudder and squeal like a pansy.

Removing a fresh cloth from her satchel and her water canteen, Hermione wiped the slug residue from her hand. “If you don’t mind, Madam Fraser, may we accompany you back to your home?” she asked.

“Uh…” The woman blinked her leopard yellow eyes as if coming out of trance. “Of course.” She regarded William, her expression a mixture of curiosity, tenderness, and fear. “I can give him something to settle his stomach.”

“I think he would be most grateful.” Hermione cast him a jaundiced. “Won’t you, William?”

Lethargically, he raised his hand towards her and curled all fingers except for his middle one and thumb.

Hermione’s stomach soured further, and Mrs. Fraser gasped and whispered an incredulous, “Christ.”

Grabbing the boy’s offending fist, she jerked him closer to her. “Don’t you ever do that again, do you understand? You don’t know what it means.”

“You’re hurting me.” He made a lame attempt at kicking her which she dodged. “And you do it all the time! I saw you do it back on the ship and in Charleston! Why should I give two fucks—”

Hermione whirled him around and clamped her palm over his mouth. She sent Mrs. Fraser an apologetic look.

With all his strength, he yanked her hand away and screeched, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, and double fu—aack!”

Smooshing his cheeks together, Hermione managed to cut off his profanity-ridden rant. Her free hand met his ribs and began to tickle him mercilessly. His gangly body jerked and twisted, but she had seven years of hot yogalates under her belt. She flattened him to the ground in four seconds. One palm pressing into his shoulder and the other tormenting his upper belly, she stooped down and laid a wet, fat kiss on his right cheek and then the left.

“Get off me!” he squealed.

Hermione ignored his violent kicking and wiggling and screaming, moving her lips to his forehead, chin, and nose.

“Madam Fraser, help me, please!” he begged through his reluctant laughter.

Mrs. Fraser shuffled closer, calmly kneeling beside the boy, before peppering gentle kisses upon his face. One long, pale finger found the divot of his belly button through his shirt, and like that, William knew he lost.

“Stop, stop, please! I can’t. I can’t. I’m going to…” He nearly sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t do the gesture ever again! I won’t say that foul word ever again! Please just stop!”

Both women stopped, and William scrambled to his feet and sprinted about twenty feet and disappeared behind a tree. Even at the distance, the faint sound of urine of splashing against bark could be heard.

Hermione went to grin at Mrs. Fraser and thank her, but the words never came out. An expression of child-hungriness and endearment graced her stricken features.

“Are you all right?” asked Hermione.

Mrs. Fraser’s nodded, her nose pinking and eyes watering. “He just…reminds me of my daughter at that age. She’s grown now, but…” she touched her belly, “was also ticklish right there.” She wiped her under her eyes, laughing in embarrassment. “They grow up so fast. Did you and your late husband…not have children of your own?”

Hermione shook her head no. A nosy question, but 1768 was a nosy era, so she tried not to be offended. Truthfully, her story was odd for the times. Madam Hermione Christakos was an overly educated thirty-one-year-old widow with no children and no plans to remarry.

“Are you not able to conceive?” she asked.

Another nosy question, and Hermione was tempted to snap at Mrs. Fraser and tell her to eff off and mind her own bloody business.

Instead, Hermione decided on the truth. “We didn’t want children.”

Yep. There it was. The truth, more or less. Draco saw no rush to impregnate her, and he loathed the inevitable of sharing her body and time with someone else. Even if that someone else was his own offspring. He wanted to postpone such a nightmare for as long as possible.

Hermione was head Hit-Witch and playing politics at the ministry as to pave her way into becoming Minister of Magic by thirty-eight. Once she plopped her perfectly heart-shaped arse in her rightfully deserved seat, then and only then would she have considered giving Helena Granger and Narcissa Malfoy the grandbaby they were dying for.

Mrs. Fraser’s jaw dropped, and she sputtered out, “You didn’t want them?”

Hermione nodded. “So we didn’t have them.”

“How?” Mrs. Fraser coughed, her face flushing. “I mean, I’ve heard of ways to prevent pregnancy, but accidents commonly occur, and nothing save for abstinence—”

“There were no accidents and absolutely no abstinence. My husband would’ve happily given me an army of children before giving up his favorite activity to do with me. As it were…we were lucky.”

“Wh-what method did you use if you don’t mind me asking?”

Hermione arched a brow. Now Mrs. Fraser was going to be shy with her questions, and Hermione was unsure how to answer this one. A month into her relationship with Draco nine years ago, he paid his healer an office visit and received a vasectomy. Quick, efficient enough, and mostly reversible.

“Here, I thought you had the look of wanting more children,” evaded Hermione, trying not to let her gaze linger on the woman’s gray hairs. Mrs. Fraser’s Victoria Secret model face looked about thirty-eight, maybe, but her streaked hair said another thing.

“I suppose I still could.” Mrs. Fraser nibbled on her bottom lip, casting a look of longing at William’s pee tree. “If my husband asked for another, I would happily give him one, but…I’m much too old. What if I had complications o-or died. My dear Jamie would never forgive himself.” She made a thick, sad noise in the back of her throat, and she tossed up her hands as if in surrender. “Then there’s the possibility of the baby being born with Down Syndrome.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, and the air left her lungs.

What did she just say? Hermione couldn’t have possibly heard right.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Mrs. Fraser’s face flushed hotly, and her mouth opened and closed, searching for words. “I-It’s a kind of defect that can happen to—”

“I know what Down Syndrome is, Mrs. Fraser.” Hermione quite literally fell on her arse and grabbed handfuls of grass to keep herself steady. “Now I have a question of my own. Why the hell are you calling it Down Syndrome when John Langdon Down hasn’t even been born yet?”

Chapter Text

Ministry of Magic, England

Head Auror’s Office, October 2010

Harry Potter leaned back in his office chair, a half-empty glass of fire whisky in hand. A vicious knock rattled his door, and he groaned.

“Come back with a fucking warrant!” he growled, knocking back the rest of his drink and slamming it on his desk.

Blaise Zabini burst through the door, slamming it behind him and began to pace. “He’s insane, Potter! Utterly and completely mental! He wants to die—”

“I don’t bloody care what he wants! He needs to stay alive—”

“Or be released, so he can go gallivanting off and murder his mother! His mother, Potter! The woman who gave birth to him. Fed him from her glorious, pale, and magnificent breasts for the first five years of his life—

“Malfoy was breastfed until he was five?”

 “—She kissed and coddled and spoiled that little shit. It’s one thing to murder a spouse but do so to your own mother—”

“He won’t.”

Zabini’s volatile expression became pained and helpless. “Merlin, she’d probably let him kill her. She’s not coping well at all. I had tea with her earlier. I’m genuinely afraid for her, Potter. You’re still monitoring their letters, right?”

Harry nodded. “Narcissa, I can handle. Daniel and Helena Granger, they are so…Muggle.” Harry gestured at the folders on his desk. “They won't understand, and it doesn’t help that I can’t explain it to them because fucking Unspeakable Department won’t explain it to me, so I can’t tell them shit about what happened to their daughter. All I can say is both she and Malfoy have gone missing, and we're doing our best to find them. No way can I say she probably travelled through time because there are portals around the world that can perform those kind of circus tricks sometimes. Not all the time and not for everyone. I don’t know if she went forward or backward. I don’t know if it’s been ten months for her or ten years. All I know is that she’s alive because of Malfoy’s ring.”

“Thank Merlin for that.”

“What if she’s not safe?” he asked, his voice thick. He threw his glasses on the desk and rubbed his eyes.

“I miss her, too. I get it—”

Harry slammed his fist down on the desk. “No, you don’t! You don’t get it, Blaise! I am happy she has your loyalty and friendship, but I have loved her as a sister for twenty years. We have seen and shared the best and worst moments life threw at us. There were so many times I thought she was going to die during…during that time. When it was all over…What if she’s not safe?” he repeated, falling back into his chair, deflated.

“I understand your worry for her,” Zabini retried, “but don’t let your fear keep you from remembering who she is and what she’s capable of. She didn’t survive the Wizarding War or marrying into the Malfoy family by being a delicate flower. She is bloody brilliant, frighteningly quick on her feet, but most importantly, she is adaptable.”

“I know she is. I just…yesterday, when I got home, Gin didn’t come rushing to me wanting an update on the case. She’s been doing that ever since Hermione disappeared. I found my wife in the nursery folding a mountain of pink baby clothes by hand. No magic. She didn’t even look at me. Do you know what she said, though?”

Zabini shook his head.

“‘I don’t want to name the baby Lily. I want to name her Hermione.’”

“Hey—”

“She’s given up. My wife, Hermione’s best friend, has given up. And not only that, she’s lost faith in me to find her—”

“No, Harry. I’m using her first name here, so you know I’m about to go balls deep in you. Harry, you go home to your incredibly hot, sad, heartless wife right now. Make sweet, long, passionate love to her until she goes into fucking labor. When your darling daughter is born and that incredibly hot, sad, heartless wife is trying to name the poor child a name I didn’t even know how to pronounce until sixth year—”

“Oh, Godric.” Harry snorted wetly.

“—You tell her, ‘Wife, this child will be named after, not a very-much-alive Hermione and not my dead mum, but my very good friend Blaise Zabini who reminded me that Hermione would kick my lily-white arse for staying late at the office moping about like whiney little bitch when I should’ve been spending my spare hours with you sitting on my face, comforting you during these trying months because it’s not only me suffering without Hermione. You and the entire Wizarding World of fucking England is beside themselves. You may've been the Chosen One, Potter, but she was the favorite. Anyway, we both know she'll come back—”

“Fuck you, Zabini. Every second I’m not searching for Hermione, is another—”

“Hermione isn’t sitting around waiting for you to save her, Potter!"

The air left Harry's lungs, and he cupped his mouth, stifling a sob.

"I hate being a bastard, but you have to hear it. She is not planning for you and Ron Weasley to show up on a fucking unicorn wherever the hell she is, swoop down, and fly her back here. You’re right, I haven’t been braiding her hair for twenty years, but I know her well enough. Wherever and whenever she is, she is being proactive. Yes, keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll keep cracking at Draco, but it is entirely possible she will figure this out before we will. And guess what? She’s not going to hate us for it. What she will hate is coming back to find Ginny has left you for me because throughout all the chaos and drama, I was able to keep my shit together—where are you going?”

Potter shoves his arms drunkenly into the sleeves of his cloak. “Home,” he grumbled.

“It’s Wednesday which means Gin’s cottage pie. Can I come over?”

“No. Besides, Molly’s been the one cooking for the last few days. Gin’s too tired, and her back and legs are hurting all the time now.”

“Molly adores me. She won’t turn me away.”

“But it’s my house—”

“Any house that Molly dwells in is her home, Potter.”

Harry nodded ruefully. “Yeah, okay, but we're stopping to get Ginny some chocolate. Wherever Hermione is, I hope she gets to have chocolate at least.”

“Can you imagine what kind of person she’d be without it?”

The Chosen One snickered. “Look, there was a reason why she didn’t have friends until Ron and I came along. Her parents spoiled her rotten and told her she was the best at everything and anything…but never gave her chocolate.”

“Ironically, Narcissa reared Draco the same but with chocolate. Granger's parents are an odd pair. I don’t know how Hermione’s dad scored her mum. Mrs. Granger is a total MILF and a good cook, but there’s never any dessert, and she’s always talking about Jesus. Do you think she’s aware her daughter’s prim and prissy attitude and angel face is nothing but a farse?” Blaise made a face of dramatic contemplation.  “Do you think Jesus is aware?”

Harry ignored him, righting his cloak and opening his office door. “We should also stop and get a bottle of merlot for Molly. She’s been good to us this last little while. Something expensive, so you’re buying.”

"There will be dessert, right? Aside from your wife's cream pie--ow!"

The Colony of North Carolina

October 1768

A look of apprehensive excitement washed over Mrs. Fraser’s face, and Hermione stared wide-eyed at her. Her heart pounding in her chest. Unable to help herself, she grabbed the older woman’s hand, squeezing the chilly appendage and searching—feeling—for magic. There was…an echo of something, but not strong enough to be considered , so to speak.

A Squib. This woman was a Squib.

An English Squib in Colonial America who knew the term Down Syndrome.

“Who are you really?” asked Hermione, jerkily shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’m…” Mrs. Fraser wrinkled her brow, and she muttered to herself, “There’re more. Of course, there would be.” Instead of taking back her hand, she brought her free one and placed it over their joined fingers. “Hispaniola. You came through there, didn’t you? That would explain your involvement with John Grey.”

“Yes!” Hermione let out thick, choking laugh. Tears blurred her vision. Oh, God. There was someone else like her. This was...this was incredible! Maybe she didn’t have to set sail to England and appease the Magic of Ministry there to help her. Maybe this woman could help her find her way home via the stones. “Did you come through there, too? Is that how you know about it? How did you know about it? I mean, how could you? You’re…” Did this woman even know what she was?

Mrs. Fraser shook her head. “I came through at Craigh na Dun in—”

“Inverness, Scotland.”

“You know it?” The woman tightened her grip.

Hermione nodded. Draco had been obsessed with the circle of stones. He was going to take her there for a trip but at the last minute decided the Dominican Republic would suit them better. Hermione agreed. Scotland was hardly a novelty for them. When he surprised her with the switch, it was almost too fabulous to handle. A warmer climate and sandy beaches.  England had been in the middle of a cold spell, and she felt like she hadn't seen the sun in weeks.

“You came through there,” Hermione stated slowly, unsure. “How…did you sail here to the colonies? Why? Did you not try to return to…When did you come from?”

Mrs. Fraser laughed nervously. “Which time?”

“You’ve come and gone more the once? Just the first time…I thought…” Hermione licked her lips, shuddering. “I thought I was going to die, and then when I immediately tried to go back…”

How could Hermione explain to Claire her wedding ring wouldn't allow her reentrance into the portal? That magic-enriched band had sensed mortal peril in that portal and, eventually, knocked Hermione clear out of the cave and refused her to even breach the mouth of it again. For two days, she banged against an invisible barrier. Even attempting, quite comically, to remove her ring. Going to so far as to start gnawing on her finger. As if she hadn't made a marriage-equivalent Unbreakable Vow to Draco.

Her state of magical desperation, starvation, and dehydration alerted the unsympathetic wizarding community of her presence. A translation spell had to be cast for her to understand the tribesmen who took her before the Chief Priestess. Translation spell still activated, Hermione explained her predicament, and the Chief Priestess and her court were already offended by her ugly, pale skin, her tongue of the oppressive and murderous colonizers, and filthy blood—apparent by her scar. To make matters worse, she time-traveled and did so using their island's sacred and supposedly secret power. Time travel through that portal had been outlawed for two centuries and to do so was seen as an unholy and diabolical crime. The priestess nor her people would condemn her to death for her crimes, but they would not help her. She was shoved out of their discreet dome with nothing but the clothes on her back and a warning.

"Do not try changing history, girl," warned the Chief Priestess. "There is a reason my people condemn such use of magic. Hundreds of years ago we stopped war, famine, and disease amongst our people. Our home was rich and prosperous because of our travels. The bellies of children were full and the magic in their blood strong. We had prevented much heartbreak and ruin, but because we did this slight against nature, the Zemi punished us for our perverseness and abandoned us when the colonizers came. If you, girl, cheat the natural order, your god will cast you aside and allow much worse to befall you." 

Pale fingers brushed over Hermione’s wedding ring, tracing the diamonds. “Did you have other jewelry on you when you came through?”

“Um…” Hermione let go of Mrs. Fraser, so she could hook her thumb around the delicate gold chain hanging about her neck and hidden beneath her clothes. She could’ve sold the necklace back in Hispaniola to better further her fund of sailing to England, but she couldn’t bring herself to go through with it. The necklace had been her grandmother’s who died last year…well, in 2009.

Mrs. Fraser carefully examined the small, intricate cross and tapped her fingertip in the center of it. “Was there a gemstone here?”

“A red amethyst, yes.”

The woman let go of the pendant. “The journey through...I’ve come to believe requires gemstones as a way to pass through safely. You have your diamonds on your ring, though, and your tried to go back through. I wonder why they weren’t accepted. Are they not real?”

“So I need gemstones to get back through?” asked Hermione, evading the question.

Mrs. Fraser gave her a considering look. “You came through on accident, didn’t you?”

“Well, this wasn’t the vacation I envisioned my husband and I taking.”

“Your husband,” the woman said softly. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. He’s back in your time, I take it, and not actually dead.” She nibbled on her bottom lip, casting her eyes around as if she were afraid someone was listening on them. William was still behind his tree. Soft, determined grunting sounds could be heard of a boy constipated from excessive salted pork. “If only I could help you. We had gemstones, my husband and I, but were set upon my pirates. They were stolen last year.”

Hermione visibly deflated. “I’m trying to save money for a passage, but on top of that, I’ll need gemstones.”

“If you could part with the necklace…” Mrs. Fraser gestured her chin at Hermione’s chest. “I’m sure you could find a buyer somewhere near.”

She shook her head. Her grandmother wore the necklace always and would’ve been buried in it if she hadn’t decided to bequeath it to Hermione right before passing. “It was my grandmother's.”

“I think your granny would understand the direness you’re in. This world, this time is a very hostile, ugly, and unforgiving place.”

"You don't say?"

Claire raised a bemused eyebrow. "It goes without saying, especially towards women."

“Then why are you here? If you can leave and go back and forth, why stay? There is a war about to start here. Are you mad?”

Mrs. Fraser waved a hand, gesturing vaguely at the trees. “My husband is here.”

"He came with you through the portal?"

"No, no, no." Claire nervously chuckled. "I met him after and..." She shrugged helplessly, and her eyes glazed over. "I fell in love."

Hermione stared at her.

And then blinked a couple of times.

“No, I’m serious.”

“I did.”

“Fine, but why would you stay and marry someone from here?” Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Did you have children? Is that why you couldn't stay away?”

“The answer is far from simple, but I am here because my place is with my husband, and I…I love him more than anything. You’re married. I’m sure you understand.”

A little over six months ago, she would've enthusiastically agreed. As it was, though... “My husband tried to murder me.”

Mrs. Fraser’s jaw came unhinged, and she even looked betrayed. Like she'd been searching for commonalities between herself and Hermione, only to be smacked in the face by a gnarly white glove. "I beg your pardon?"

“Plot twist.” Hermione snickered…which then turned into a sniffle and then into a bit of crying fest.

“Oh, my darling. I’m so…” She looked like she wanted say sorry but didn’t feel that was quite adequate enough. She hovered a hand over her mouth. “And you want to go back to him?”

Hermione wiped at her tear-steaked cheeks. “I have parents. I’m a sister and an auntie. I have a job and a life. And my husband, I don’t even know if he’s still back in our time or if he tried to come through after me. His ritual didn’t go as planned. I was too stubborn and was supposed to die.”

“I met someone like us,” Mrs. Fraser started, hesitant, “who, through her research, believed along the same lines. As you’ve likely concluded, a sacrifice isn’t necessary. Gemstones are, though.” She reached over and petted the loose, curly strands of hair that escaped out of Hermione’s tight braid. “What was he trying to change?”

Hermione couldn’t very well tell her the truth. That Draco Malfoy was trying to go back in time and prevent, not just the birth of Tom Marvolo Riddle, but the entire debacle leading up to his conception.

“He was trying to stop someone from being born. Someone…bad.”

“Well, there are a number of bad people throughout history,” Mrs. Fraser remarked. “I’m curious, but I won’t ask who if you're not comfortable. I will ask, was the person born around this time?”

"Not even close. I don't even know...why I ended up here? Why in 1768 and not another year? Another century?"

"I have...speculations of what draws an unsuspecting traveler to a certain time, though, it can't be proven." A worry line creased her forehead, and she pointed a thumb at William’s tree. “Does he usually take this long?”

“Lord John and I are having a difficult time getting him to eat more ruffage. He’ll be a while longer.”

“Perhaps I’ll add a splash of something in his teas during your stay here.” Her expression became anxious. “H-How long do you think you’ll be here? Not that I’m trying to oust you all. Being a…traveler like myself. It’s lonely sometimes. No one else understands, and it’s nice to speak freely. I do with my husband, obviously, but he’s…I didn’t even ask. When are you from?”

“Oh, um...2010.”

“Twenty…” Mrs. Fraser mouthed the ‘ten’ part, eyes widening to the size of boiled eggs. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. I have… oh, my God, I can only imagine how far from home you truly are.”

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed weakly, motioning to her surroundings. "Corsets and stays. No panties or sports bras. No women's rights. Practically no human rights, save if you're a white man of a certain faith and age. Slavery is legal. No running water. Chocolate and books are damned hard to come by. This is just about hell for me."

Mrs. Fraser grasped the younger woman’s arms, absorbing every detail of her all over again. “If it wasn’t the moment I saw you, dressed like a man without a care in the world, it should’ve clued me in when you were properly cleaning William’s wounds. Not only that, but you are also abundantly prepared to do so.”

“He’s always getting hurt. I could put him in a room made of marshmallows, and he would bust his way out, somehow skinned alive.”

“Well, that’s because he’s a Fr—” Mrs. Fraser cleared her throat. “A frightening little hellraiser. I swear all little boys are.”

“Auntie Claire!”

The woman snapped her to the side and called out, “Ian?”

A young man, tall and gangly in physique, jogged up to them, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife sheathed at his belt. An Irish wolfhound shadowing him closely. The dog approached Hermione, sniffing her open and offered hand. The gigantic pup lapped the skin of her palm, and Hermione scratched at his ears.

“Well, aren’t you a good boy?” She looked up at the young man. “A fine pooch you have here, I say.”

The boy’s brown eyes widened, and he instantly dropped his defensive stance. He grabbed his battered, tricorn hat and placed it over his chest.

“Forgive me, I thought ye were a wee man botherin' my Auntie Claire. Auntie Claire, Uncle Jamie says we've visitors,” he said, not taking his eyes off Hermione. He stepped forward clumsily and offered his hand to her. “May I help ye to yer feet, lass?”

“Perhaps you should first help your aunt to her feet.”

Ian placed his hat back on his head, ears turning pink, and swiftly stuck out both paws for each woman to take. “Ian Fraser Murray, yer servant.”

Mrs. Fraser made a throat-clearing sound like she was trying to keep from giggling.

Once Hermione was to her feet, Ian Fraser Murray kissed her hand, released it, stepped back, and took a bow.

“A pleasure to make yours and your pup’s acquaintance, Mr. Murray.” Hermione raked massaging nails over the back of the hound’s head and into his neck. “What do you call him?”

“Rollo, Ma’am.”

“A fine name, Mr. Murray.”

“Ian, this is Madam Hermione Christakos,” Claire introduced pointedly. “Madam Christakos, this is my nephew, Ian.”

Hermione dipped her chin politely, feeling a little bad at Ian’s hopeful face drooping in disappointment.

“I say, Mr. Ian Murray,” William said, his chin jutting out self-importantly and arms tucked behind himself like a gentleman appearing at court. Instead of an unbathed boy who had just taken a gigantic shit in the woods. “Do not despair. My beloved governess is widowed.” His obnoxious front dissolved, however, at the sight of Rollo. He let out a high, excited squeaking sound and said, “What a majestic creature you have. May I pet him?”

William didn’t wait for an answer, nor did he actually pet the dog. He first pushed his hands into the dog’s fur and then slid his arms down and around Rollo’s massive middle, embracing the huge hound.

Rollo panted contently.

Hermione scowled, hating how she didn’t have a camera.

“Madam Hermione?” William flicked his blue eyes at her, pleadingly, half his face squashed into to Rollo’s neck. “When we get to Mount Josiah, I want a dog. Will you warm Papa up to the idea of it?”

“Will you put more effort into your Greek lessons?”

His bottom lip poked out just a smidge. “Yes,” he muttered.

“And your arithmetic?”

“I suppose.”

“History?”

He nodded.

“And most importantly,” she folded her arms and flicked a quick look at Claire, “current events. You have…” Hermione wouldn’t say luxury, “the opportunity to live at a very interesting time and hold a position of leadership and power—”

“For God’s sake, it’s just a dog!”

“Pets come with a lot of responsibility, William. In many ways, dogs can be like children who never grow up. Most breeds tend to be loyal and love without condition. You must strive to be worthy of that.”

William eyed her, his fingers massaging the sides of Rollo. “If I oblige to all the conditions, I want an army of puppies—”

“…oh…”

“—three cats, two geese, a peacock, and one of those yellow boas we saw in Hispaniola.”

Hermione brought her hand to her mouth, wrinkling her brow. She sighed and turned to Claire and gave her a tight smile. “Of course, my lord, we will need all of that to feed the snake.”

“I’m not going to feed the snake my puppies! Are you quite mad?”

“Speakin’ of snakes, Auntie,” Ian interjected, “It’s still in the privy.”

“What is? A snake? Can I see?” William detached himself from Rollo, his face eager.

“I don’t see why no—”

“No!” both Hermione and Claire barked in unison.

“Yes, we have a rattlesnake in our privy,” said Claire, planting her hands on her hips and huffing in embarrassment.

Hermione grabbed a hold of William by the elbow in case he got any funny ideas about running towards danger, utter stupidity, and potentially parasitic material. He glared up at her. “I don’t even know where it is, Madam.”

“I’ll remove it for you,” she told Claire.

“Oh, my husband will figure out a way—”

“I will take care of it, Mrs. Fraser. It is honestly no trouble. You would be surprised how many snakes I've handled and even tamed in my lifetime. May I ask what kind it is?”

Claire shot her perplexed look. “Uh…a rattlesnake. A-Are you sure?”

“Yes. I only ask if you could spare William a crust of bread.” Finger-combing back his thick whorls of chestnut before gently cupping his chin, she smiled fondly at him. Her growing student hadn’t eaten in a few hours, plus the whole emptying of his bowels, she knew he was famished.

A voice in her head, sounding uncannily like Molly Weasley, instructed her to plump up the boy. And with more stable access to foods, ingredients, and a kitchen once settled in Virginia, she planned to prepare him a nice and buttery, cheesy toastie with cookies for pudding. Chocolate and vanilla were damned hard to come by in these parts of the colonies, but William liked raisins and currants.

Simply because he didn’t know better.

Alas, maybe a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies.

“I’m sure we can scrounge something up for tea,” said Claire, beckoning William closer to her with a friendly smile. “Ian, will you show Madam Christakos to the privy.”

William stared at Hermione, skeptic. “Do you really know how to get rid of the snake?”

“I got rid of the three you put in my bed, didn't I?”

“But those weren’t venomous at all and were practically babies. What if…what if you get bitten?”

“William—”

“A-And get sick and—”

Ian whistled a quick note, and Rollo came to his side. “Rollo and I willna let anythin’ happen to your wee madam, aye? If the snake springs up to strike, I’ll take the bite.”

The hell he will!

Hermione sent a discreet shake of her head at Claire who looked like she’d rather Ian depart from this world due to the loving throttle of her frigid death grip. The woman relaxed. They had an understanding. No harm would come to her beloved nephew.

Chapter Text

Steady hands held the girth of the rattlesnake that’d been plaguing the Fraser’s privy. Hermione studied at the creature, assessing her own spell-work—said creature was docile as a lamb thanks to a heady and covert Confundus Charm. Coaxing the snake out of its putrid hole required as little as throwing down a sizeable rock and reacting quickly.

“Mary, Mother, and St. Bride!” Ian crossed himself.

The snake still coiled and slithered but not in anyway threateningly. Hermione considered what to do next. Snakes had their place in the ecosystem, so she didn’t feel right killing it.

“Have you ever eaten rattlesnake?” she asked him, coming to an inner compromise. Kill the snake, yes, but no reason for the meat to go to waste.

He shook his head no and very much looking like he wanted to try his luck at a marriage proposal.

She thought of William and smiled at Ian who was —for all intents and purposes— considered a man during this time. To Hermione, he might as well be a child, though, it was not an entirely fair assessment. At his age, she had seen and suffered more than any child should. Ian had a bright and hardy spirit, his entire being vibrating for the next adventure. There was sweetness to his countenance that endeared Hermione, but she surmised his young life had not left him untouched by humanity's pension for cruelty.

“Me neither, but there’s a first for everything.” How did one prep a snake to eat it? Was rattlesnake even edible? Some snakes were but which ones? Hermione didn't know. She had never eaten snake before. Not the literal kind anyway.  “Or maybe we should just relocate it. Do you know of a nice, cozy spot far away where he won’t be a problem?”

“Oh, aye. I ken these woods well. We’ll find a fine place for our wee snake.”

There was nothing wee about the snake, the thing seemingly about five feet in length. Hermione had always found it cute when hearing Scots and Irish describing something as wee. The object could be as small as a mouse or the size of Buckingham.

As they trekked through the trees upon the mossy earth, Ian leading the way, he became more comfortable and braver in talking to her.

“I’m sorry to hear about your late husband, Madam,” he offered, albeit a bit shyly.

“Thank you, Mr. Murray. You are very kind.”

His ears pinkened, and he ducked his head. “Ye can call me Ian if ye’d like.”

“That is a fine name, and I think I will, Ian.”

He swallowed and smiled. “Named after my da.”

“I bet anything he’s a fine man to have raised such a capable and kindly gentleman. Does he live close to your aunt and uncle?”

He shook his head no. “Och, no. He’s back in Scotland with my ma.”

“Scotland is very beautiful. I imagine you miss it.”

Ian regarded her in surprise. “Canna say I met many English who’re fonda it.” He then grinned jovially. “‘Cept for my auntie. She’s keen on Scotland, she is.”

He said this impishly, quirking a brow.

“She married a Scotsman. Your uncle, I take it.”

“Auntie Claire hadn’t been widowed too long before my Uncle Jamie came in and swept her off her feet. Did ye ken she’s also a wee bit older than him?”

Claire had been married before…well, before, apparently. Or at least Ian had been told of such a thing. Hermione imagined, like herself, Claire had to weave a tale of lies to keep afloat in this world. If the woman had truly come through the Craigh na Dun stones, popping into the 1700s as a lone English woman, her arrival would’ve been far from a warm welcome.

At this point, Hermione was aware Ian was staring a hole in her head, and the words he spoke hit her on a different level. She hoped he was at least somewhat aware she and him would never happen.

"I was a little older than my late husband," she remarked stiffly. 

“I think here should suit,” said Ian, coming to a stop right before a glade.

Hermione stooped over, setting the snake down in the tall grass, hearing choking from behind her. Peering over her shoulder, she saw Ian’s wide, brown eyes unabashedly staring at her rump. When he noticed her noticing, he blushed hotly and whirled around like she caught him peeking at her in the nude.

Well…the trousers were a tad snug, originally tailored for a young man’s narrow hips and taught, flat buttocks and not at all designed for an adult woman. A woman who, once upon a time, tortured herself at the yoga studio to achieve that firm and fashionable peach-shaped bottom.

Hermione almost asked Ian how her backside faired with all the bread and beer she’d consumed in the last several months but decided against it.

“I apologize. I no’ often see a woman dressed in breeks. A-Are they comfortable, lass?” he asked lamely.

“It’s quite all right, Ian. I confess to find dresses…cumbersome.”

Currently, Hermione had two sets of dresses to her name. She acquired the first by simple thievery. Not her proudest moment. Not long after being shoved out of the Chief Priestess's court and Magical Hispaniola, she'd snuck into a higher-end brothel. Filching and donning a few of the more modest items and openly walked out of the place on the arm of a positively ancient and half-blind man, who smelled of spirits and iniquity. He kept telling her she reminded him of his long dead, younger sister, and he wanted to take a peep at her "cunny" to see if there were similarities. The establishment had been brimming with boisterous patrons and flirtatious women. No one took notice of her when she slammed her fist into the disgusting man's face, kneed him in the balls, and stole his coin purse.

The second dress, Grey had gifted her out of necessity. No governess under his employment would have just the one dress. Those dresses now were on their way to Virginia where Hermione imagined she would acquire several more fripperies once she and her party settled there. Upon her arrival, she must kiss goodbye her trousers and the discreet cloth binding her breasts.

Hermione could kick and scream and bemoan the items her sex had to wear during this time…or she could get over it. Corsets and stays and petticoats were the least of 1768’s problems. The Virginia property, like Grey’s post in Hispaniola, was another plantation which meant slaves.

And slaves meant heartbreak and misery.

If she’d been someone else, Hermione would’ve noted the horror as hopeless and how there was little she could do. And yes, that last bit could be true. Slavery itself was atrocious and wicked and completely out of her power to stop. The slave markets she witnessed in Hispaniola had made her physically ill, and she could do nothing for the captives, save make things worse for everyone, including herself. But she was Hermione Granger. Founder of S.P.E.W.—which was absorbed by the Department and Welfare of Magical Creatures in 2000—and God damnit, she would do her best.

Lord John Grey was far from a cruel master. However, during his post as governor, he spent little time dealing with his own plantation and the slaves. He was rarely at the house, therefore, ignorant of what was taking place on his property. The trusted, yet enslaved butler managed what took place inside the house. As for the outside, the white and free overseer of the sugar fields kept matters in hand if one could call it that.

Hermione loathed him as did the slaves.  

Then quite suddenly, while Hermione was taking her afternoon tea in the bungalow, Jenkin's died of apoplexy whilst going about his overseeing.

She frowned at the memory of him dropping dead in the field. She hadn't meant to kill him, only Confound him hard enough he'd forget his own name and what to do with his penis. Being without a wand, she was unable to express harder spells steadily and at such a great distance from her target.

Only a small twinge of guilt plagued her mind about the incident. Still, Jenkins was a despicable monster and slotted for hell. Half the children born on the plantation in the last four years were undeniably sired by him. It only bothered her she'd been the one to off him and would've much rather watched the slaves string him up like a piñata and take turns beating him until his insides burst onto the ground.

When Jenkins had fallen over and was clearly dead, a young slave woman—heavily pregnant—fell to her knees and praised the Lord while an older man hobbled over to the lifeless body and lowered his breeches just enough to take a long piss on his face.

At the house in Virginia, Grey would be present more often than he had been in Hispaniola, and Hermione would not tolerate any ignorance on his part or William's concerning the men and women keeping the property in order. The country would be built on the blood and bones and tears of slaves and the oppressed. For God's sake, if Hermione cannot grant them freedom, she will ensure they have their master's respect.

Ian led her to a cabin. Once entering, Hermione found William, Grey, Claire, and the man who must be her husband sitting around the table eating jam sandwiches and drinking tea.

When Claire spoke of falling in love as the reason for, not only staying in the 18^th century but returning, Hermione did think less of the woman. Now that she was seeing this Jamie Fraser, husband to Claire and best friend to Grey, she marginally softened.

He was ridiculously gorgeous and a near dead-ringer for Charlie Weasley. No wonder Grey pined for him.

Both Grey, Claire, Mr. Fraser jumped up from their respected seats.

“Captain Fraser, this is William’s most delightful governess, Madam Hermione Christakos,” Grey hastily introduced, his expression undeniably pinched. “I understand, Madam, you and young Mr. Murray tended to the Fraser’s predicament regarding a rattlesnake.”

“How big was it?” William asked, excited.

“As long as yer lass here. 'Twas amazing, Uncle. The thing was no’ but a docile bairn in her wee arms.” Due to the cramped quarters, when Ian stretched out his lanky arms to give measure to the snake, the teakettle was knocked over. Claire stood up, huffy, and shooed Ian and even William outside to go play. She hastily assembled thick, jam sandwiches wrapped in cloth and shoved a bottle of cider into Ian’s chest before sending them off.

A spot at the table now free, Hermione took her place next to Grey and tried to not seem too eager at the jam sandwiches and tea. Breakfast was a long time ago.

“Thank you kindly for inviting us into your home, Mr. and Mrs. Fraser.” She dipped her chin at Jamie Fraser. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You may already know I already met Claire earlier.”

The silence was thick with awkwardness which wasn’t entirely unusual for English nor Scottish teatime. Claire kept shooting malevolent glances at Grey when she wasn’t staring at Hermione in impatient fascination. Clearly, she wanted to continue their conversation from earlier, and Hermione needed to know as much as she could about this curious method of time travel. She’d hoped the Ministry of Magic in England would supply her a time-turner, but if they couldn’t or simply wouldn’t, she had to assemble a Plan B. The stones of Craigh na Dun may very well be her ticket home.

“John tells me ye’ve been widowed,” Mr. Fraser spoke, breaking the silence. “He tells me smallpox claimed him earlier this year.”

Claire sent her a panicked look and put her hand on Mr. Fraser’s arm. “Jamie…”

He crossed himself. “I offer my condolences. ‘Tis a nasty illness and a miracle ye dinna catch it yerself. Was it in Greece ye lost him?”

“In Portugal. Many of the ship's passengers and crew fell ill after departing port from Alicante, my darling Draco among them.”

Mr. Fraser’s blue, cat-like eyes squinted. “Curious name, Draco.”

“Short for Draconious,” Hermione lied, sipping her tea and studying his face. Something was amiss here.

“‘Tis also a curious name, lass.”

“I confess, he was a curious man.” Cue more tea-sipping.

The awkwardness descended upon the three of them again until Claire slammed down her teacup and fixed John Grey with a golden-eyed glare. “What are you doing here?”

Into the rim of her teacup, Hermione muttered, “Agreed.”

Grey’s batted his long, pretty lashes at Claire. “I did not come with the intention of—” He glanced at Hermione, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Well, never mind that. The truth of the matter is that my wife has died. On the ship between England and Hispaniola. She was coming to join me there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jamie whispered. “The lad will have been with her?”

“Yes. Willie was—very close to Isobel. She was the only mother he’d known since birth.”

“I’m very sorry,” Claire said, genuine which Grey vaguely acknowledged.

“My appointment as governor was nearly at end; I had intended perhaps to take residence on the island, should the climate suit my family. As it was…” He shrugged and continued, “Willie was grief stricken at the loss of his mother. It seemed advisable to seek to distract by whatever means I could. Two opportunities presented themselves at once. Madam Christakos came into my employment. She shown great bravery, resilience, and care in the face of Willie’s rather hostile mourning process…” He chuckled. “I didn’t tell you, Jamie. Hermione has eight brothers.”

Claire balked at her. “Eight? Were you the only girl?”

Hermione thought of Ginny—her best girlfriend and sister of her heart. “I have one sister.”

The woman let out sigh of relief. “God, I can’t imagine what it would've been like without her.”

Yes, Ginny did have it terrible before Hermione came along, didn’t she? Spoiled, yes, yet outnumbered and had learned early on to give as good as she got when it came to her brothers' shenanigans. 

“The second opportunity is regards to my wife’s estate,” Grey resumed. “It includes a large property in Virginia which she had bequeathed to William. Upon her death, I received her inquiries from the factor of the plantation, asking for instruction. I could not well decide what to do with the property without seeing it, and evaluating the conditions that obtain here. So I determined that we should sail to Charleston, and from there, travel overland to Virginia. I trusted to the novelty of the experience to divert William from his grief—which I am pleased to observe, it seems to have done. He has been more cheerful these past few weeks.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, unnoticed by Grey but not by Claire or her husband.

“Have your spirits lifted any, dear girl?” asked Grey, smiling closed mouthed at her.

Her lips quirked. “Let’s not play unfamiliar, John. We both know the answer to that.”

He sighed, his own mouth curling. “I was hoping we’d uphold the pretense in the presence of my friends. Mr. and Mrs. Fraser, I shall admit that Hermione did not want to come, and she refused my hiring of a bond servant, calling the practice unseemly and barbaric and I quote ‘a posh term for slavery’. A proud and devout abolitionist, she is. Furthermore, she planned to make the journey to Virginia by herself—”

“Which I could have—”

“Risking the very likely chance of you being taken by pirates and forced to perform unspeakable acts a woman of your status should never have to—”

“A woman of any status should never have to suffer such depravities. And myself being snatched away by bloody pirates was not the concern you told me back in Charleston. If you would’ve led with that, I wouldn’t have dug in my heels so much.” Hermione raised an amused brow at Claire. “He worried I would marry and run off to Massachusetts before I even made it to Virginia.”

“I said New Jersey.”

“Massachusetts sounds more appalling.” Hermione pursed her lips at the teacup in her hand. Now when would the tea be thrown into the Boston Harbor? 1773?

She planned to be back in her time long before then. It was hard enough to be without chocolate for so long.

Grey chuckled, dipping his chin. “Indeed, it does.”

“Where is the plantation?” asked Mr. Fraser, redirecting the conversation back on track. The question was clearly meant for Grey, but he was staring at her from the corner of his eye.

“The nearest town of any sort is called Lynchburg—on James River,” Grey said, amused. “It is in fact, no more than a few days deviation in our journey to come here, in spite of the remoteness of your aerie.”

“I see we’re running low on water for tea.” Claire stood up from her chair, forced smile in place. “I’ll fetch some. Do you care to join me, Madam Christakos?”

“Call me Hermione, and I would love to.”

The two of them nearly tripped over each other exiting the cabin for how eager they were to talk to each other in private. They rushed down the steps of the porch and made for the trees. When they were far enough away, Hermione rested against a trunk and gestured at Claire’s empty hands.

“Don’t you need a bucket or something for the water?”

“I just wanted to get out of there, and those two both know it.” Claire pressed her palms into her lower back and arched. “God, I could shoot him.”

“John or your husband?”

“That’s a very good question because if you would’ve asked me an hour ago, I would’ve said John. I hope it doesn’t offend you, but I do not care for their friendship. Lord John. He’s…well, he’s…”

“In love with your husband.”

Claire balked. “He told you?!”

Hermione shook her head. “He didn’t have to.”

She folded her arms, frowning deeply. “It doesn’t bother you…that he likes men.”

“I was raised in a progressive environment, and people like Grey are not novelties. My husband, he liked women and men—”

“And you married him knowing that?”

She nodded. “The Netherlands is the first country to legalize same-sex marriage. It will happen in the year 2000. The world I grew up in is more accepting. It’s not perfect by any stretch, and I’m sure within the next few years in my time, England will follow suit.”

Claire goggled at her, and Hermione winced. “I never did ask what time you came from, Claire. I’m sorry if what I said is too much.”

“It’s…” The woman bobbed her head, swallowing. “I’m sure...that kind of marriage is small potatoes in comparison to other things which will come to pass. Umm…I was born in 1918—”

Hermione snorted, holding up her hand. “That explains the underlying homophobia.”

“I am not a…” She huffed. “I’ll have you know I am quite liberal for my time.” She defiantly stuck out her chin. “I was a doctor. I am a doctor. I received my medical degree from Harvard and was the Chief of Medicine before coming back here. I even had a deep and strictly platonic friendship with a black man. Those things may not sound progressive to your double-pierced ears, but I put up with a hell of a lot of opposition to get where I am. Not just from men but from women, too. My own kind attacking me for wanting to better myself. It appears in 2010, women are still tearing each other down—”

“Claire. Claire.” Hermione showed the woman her open palms, indicating surrender. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me to snicker like that and make assumptions. My mother would be ashamed.” She sat down on a nearby log, gesturing the woman to sit down beside her. “Quite the year to be born, 1918. There was much ado in the world during that time, I hear.”

The woman’s cheeks were flushed from anger. “Yes,” she replied coolly and then more calmly, "Yes, there was."

“I would like to hear more…if you’re willing to tell me.”

For the next two hours Hermione sat listening to the tale of Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser, hugging her knees and keeping her face neutral and as non-judging as possible.

Being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange had been less difficult.

“Can you believe Frank said that to me?” Claire sputtered in self-righteous indignation.

Hermione very well could believe Frank said that to her. She wanted to say the exact same to Claire, but her mother’s spirit restrained her.

“John 8:7, sweetheart,” she heard her mum whisper all perfectly Christian-like into her ear.

“Thou shalt not commit adultery, Mum!” she internally countered.

“It sounds like Frank committed adultery, as well.”

“Can you blame him?"

“You, yourself have broken all but one commandment, Hermione.”

“And that’s the one commandment I haven’t the stomach to break, and you don’t even know my profession, Mum. You have no idea all the things I’ve hidden from you.”

“I’m truly grateful, button, but Claire made her choice.”

“It was the wrong the choice!”

“Oh, but Mr. Fraser is so rugged and handsome and manly and is still so completely enamored with Claire despite everything.”

“Mr. Fraser would be a goddamned nightmare to be married to. He’s more Gryffindor that fucking Godric himself.”

“Language!”

“You and Daddy taught me the word.”

“Claire and Jamie are happy, Hermione.”

“At whose expense?”

“Maybe you’re just jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of how stupidly in love they are, and you can no longer say the same.”

“Mum?”

“Yes, my little teacake.”

“Go away.”

“Be sure to say your prayers and give William a kiss for me. He’s probably the closest thing I’ll ever have to a grandbaby from you.”

“Mum!”

“Your eggs are dying, Hermione! Get with it!”

“I’m a little busy.”

“Oh, here comes my fake grandson now.”

William lunged down at her, burying his face into her stomach. “I’m so hungry,” he whined.

“Aye,” Ian pitched, closely following behind, a white-tailed deer draped over his shoulders. “Look what William caught us, Auntie! He has a guid eye, he does.”

“Oh Ian, that’s marvelous!”

“How did you kill it?” Hermione asked William, petting his head.

“Um…” The boy hesitated.

“With his papa’s pistol,” supplied Ian. “Grabbed it off the mare on our way oot.”

“I see."

His head popped up, blue eyes fearful. “Please don’t tell him. We can say Ian got him with his uncle’s gun.”

“William?”

“Yes?”

“Where is your father’s pistol?”

He paled and looked at Ian who shrugged. “Uh…”

“Oh, dear,” Claire said, pinching the bridge of her nose. With a heavy sigh, she lifted herself on the log. “Clearly, there’s nothing we can do about it tonight. It’s getting late and if we want to eat before midnight, we best get back to the cabin and have Jamie skin and quarter the deer. We’ll wait for morning to tell John.” She pinned Ian with a pointed look. “Unless his pistol astonishingly reappears before then. Do you agree, Madam Christakos?”

William kissed Hermione’s cheek. “Please. I won’t do or say anything horrible to you ever again.”

“Hmm.”

“All right, for a week, and I promise, Madam Christakos.”

“Hmm,” Hermione repeated, then tapped the opposite cheek he hadn’t kissed. He gave her a fat, wet kiss. Much like the ones she rained down on him earlier. He hugged her tightly, and she supposed she saw no reason to immediately worry over Grey’s pistol. They would need it before they left, but they could wait a night.

Dinner was a quaint and crowded affair, the five of them bunched around the table, elbows knocking into each other. She was practically sitting in Grey’s lap. If William wasn’t so gangly and tall for his age, she’d plop him down on her own legs, feed him like a toddler, and be done with it.

With the potatoes, corn, carrots, parsnips, and onions gone from her wooden bowl, only the chunks of deer meat remained. Hermione tried to stall, but she couldn't any longer. The animal was already dead and needn't be wasted. She also needed the protein and iron. Her week of hell started in two days.

Hermione took a bite. The meat was gamey, little tough, and undeniably delicious.

Damn.

Hermione felt sufficiently stuffed once her bowl was empty. Her eyelids drooped, and her head felt heavy. She probably should’ve taken the opportunity to go with Claire to visit and tend to a measles-ridden Indigenous person in Frasers' corncrib. When Claire returned, Hermione’s face was all but sliding into her cup of ale.

“Open up,” demanded William, his spoon flying towards her mouth, the instrument in question piled with a wad of currant cake.

“Mmm.” She chewed the sticky, dense bit of pudding as enthusiastically as she could despite her misgivings for currants. “It’s very good. Thank you.”

“Do you want more?”

“You eat the rest, my darling.”

“Is it true, Mrs. Fraser, that the savage is congenitally less able to withstand than are Europeans, while African slaves are yet more hardy than their masters,” asked Grey.

Hermione lethargically picked up her cup of ale and muttered an “Oh, God,” into it.

Claire, bless her, proudly and loudly displayed her doctorly knowledge on the subject.

“How fascinating.  You refer to organisms. Do you then subscribe to Mister Evan Hunter’s theory of miasmatical creatures? Hermione here doesn’t believe in such things, do you, my dear? You called the theory ‘a gloriously fragrant bouquet of stupid’ if I recall correctly and Hunter ‘an absolute imbecile who will lead humanity by the nose straight into the grave’.”

Hand propping up her chin, she peeled one eye open and muttered, “It wasn’t bad smells that killed my husband or your wife, John.”

“What say you, Mrs. Fraser?” Grey inquired brightly, unbothered by Hermione’s answer.

“I think I have to agree with Hermione.”

“Jamie, my good man,” Grey groaned in good humor. “The women are banding together on this. Perhaps they know something we don’t.”

Hermione heard William yawn, and she whole-heartedly agreed. “Is there a spot William can rest his head?” she asked Claire.

“The herb shed for both of you if you don’t mind sharing. John, the porch should suit. And Ian, sorry. You’ll be on the trundle—”

“Och, no, Sassenach. We canna have the lass catchin’ a chill. She’ll share the bed with you and if the lad dinna mind, he can have the trundle. Ian, John, and I will buckle down in the herb shed. ‘Twill be fine.”

‘Twill not be fine, Hermione gathered from Claire’s annoyed face. She plainly wanted her husband beside her that night and nowhere near John.

In the end, William and Ian got the herb shed. Hermione would sleep outside much to the dismay of Jamie Fraser. John, the porch. Claire provided her spare blankets which helped stave off the chill. At some point in the night, however, William burrowed beneath the covers next to her. The youthful heat of his skin warming her.

Grey found them like this, forgoing the porch, and laying himself down. William between them. It was a kind of intimacy that made Hermione’s stomach lurch in protest. She could smell the drink on him, soothing her worries. He wasn’t all in his right mind.

“How went the battle?” she asked, referring to his chess match with Mr. Fraser.

“I do believe young Ian is going to propose marriage to you tomorrow.”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious. Jamie and I discussed it. He’s not in favor of the match and neither is his wife, mind, so you need not worry. Besides, to my understanding, young Ian has lain with women of the Cherokee tribe. Though Jamie did give him a nice spot of land.”

“Oh, well, in that case, fetch a priest post haste.”

“Did your late husband own land?”

Hermione sighed, long and slow. “I married my husband for love, John. He could’ve owned nothing but a rowboat, and I would’ve happily paddled off into the sunset with him.”

“I cannot imagine your father or mother liking that scenario at all.”

“He owned land,” conceded Hermione. “He had a lot of money. Once upon a time, I was well provided for.”

“And you will inherit none of it if you return to Greece? What of your dowry?”

Hermione thought of Lucius and Narcissa and became queasy. “His parents had him bound in an arranged marriage and were not in favor of our match, nor our rather scandalous elopement. They believed if we should have offspring, they would be abominations. As for my dowry...” Think fast, Hermione. "I was one of nine children and blessed enough to have a proper education and a full belly."

“Your uncle truly said that.”

Right. She said she married her ‘dear uncle’s son’ and if Hermione had truly bore a baby out of incestuous relations, that baby very well could’ve been an abomination. “Yes. When we married anyway, he could’ve been cut off. Disowned. He wasn’t. He was their only son and heir. They had no choice but to accept what happened. With him gone and no children between us, I have and will have nothing.”

Grey was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You will need to remarry, Hermione.”

“I’ll find my way to what I need, John.”

“What if what you need finds you?”

Hermione wrapped her arm around William, nestling her nose into the crook of his neck. “Good night, John. I will see you in the morning.”

Chapter Text

Claire put a hand to Grey’s head. “You did say there was an epidemic of measles in Cross Creek?”

“Yes,” Grey said, hoarse. He was in the Frasers’ bed, flushed and pallid. “Have I got the measles? You must keep Willie and Hermione away.”

“Ian—take Willie and Hermione outside, will you please?”

Hermione wanted to stay and help Claire with John. The measles wouldn’t infect her. Muggle illnesses generally hadn’t since her magic kicked in as a child. She also was inoculated in 1990 against the measles. But she very much doubted Ian would be able to keep an anxious and distraught Willie at bay, so she reluctantly went outside with them.

Dear God, what if the bastard died?

She grabbed William’s hand and wandered over to the mare where she therapeutically began to pet the animal to keep herself calm.

“You know we haven’t named the horse?” she said, her voice thick.

The boy sniffled, looking at her like she was a madwoman. “Her name is Barbeque.”

“What?”

“You’ve ridden her for three days and didn’t know her name. Her previous owner told us her name when we bought her. Remember?”

“I’m not calling her Barbeque. What a retched name for her.”

“Not so much if we have to eat her.”

“We are not eating her. She’s a horse. I thought you liked horses.”

“I’ve heard people will eat them if they’re desperate.”

“I’d eat you before eating this horse. I’m calling her Barbie.”

“You can’t eat me! That’s cannibalism, and I read about it.”

Hermione grabbed ahold of William, tickling his stomach and mock-playing at biting him. “I’d start with those adorable little ears of yours.”

After a small tickle fight, he and Hermione joined Ian in forking hay into the mangers for Barbie and the Frasers’ horses.

As the morning progressed, Mr. Fraser found his way outside. He came to her in Claire’s garden where she was flicking insects and arachnids off the gourds as well as gathering sweet potatoes and garlic.

When his large shadow descended upon her, she wiped her forehead with her forearm and sat back on her haunches. “Will he die?”

Mr. Fraser was silent for a moment. “‘Tis too soon to say, lass.”

She nodded, tears burning her eyes. “All right.”

“If he does, what’re yer plans regarding the lad?”

“Well…” She sniffed, pointlessly brushing the wet, mucky soil from her palms. “I will have to use whatever money Grey has left on him and hope it’s enough to at least get William back to England. If there’s enough for both of us, I’ll go with him.”

It was true. If Grey passed, there was the possibility she’d get to England that much faster, but she wasn’t planning or hoping for it.

“And from England to Scotland, aye? Craigh na Dun” Mr. Fraser, knowingly. “Claire told me ye’re like her. Ye’ve come from another time, and ye’re trying to get back to yer family. ‘Twas an accident ye came here, was it? Wandered intae that cave and fell in the portal, did ye? Weel, I’ve been there, and it’s no’ a place you just wander upon unless ye know it’s there.”

She sighed, thoroughly annoyed by Claire’s blabber mouth.

"My wife and I try to not keep secrets from each other," he said, sensing her irritation.

"It was not her secret to keep from you."

"Ye say anything to my wife from now on, rest assure she'll tell me. What she didn't tell me was why ye were in that cave in the first place. I pressed but she told me if I must ken, then I had to come and ask ye myself."

Hermione frowned at her filthy fingers and the clods of black dirt stuck in the prongs and grooves of her wedding ring. “My husband took me there. He said he wanted to show me something.”

“That’s when ye fell through it.”

She shook her head, and her heart pounded inside her chest. Her hands shook, and she rested them on the damp soil beneath her. “I jumped.”

“Ye jumped into that portal on purpose?”

“I had to. My husband was trying to kill me.”

Whatever Mr. Fraser expected her say, that hadn’t been it. The corners of his lips tightened, and his eyes narrowed.

“He had me cornered and was saying all these things, all these absurd and impossible things like how he had to go back to stop it all—”

“Stop what?”

“It doesn’t even matter. He thought he needed a human sacrifice—the person he loved the most—so the portal would find him worthy and accept him and his quest.”

“That's no' how the stones work. Ye ken he was a madman, Hermione.”

She shrugged a shoulder and returned to filling her basket with ripened and ready goods. “He wasn’t always.”

Minutes ticked by before Mr. Fraser spoke up again. “I ken there’s more to yer story, lass, and I willna press much further. Take in mind this is my land. Claire's my wife, and Ian is my wee nephew. John is my friend, and I like his boy fine. I want to make sure they're safe, and ye'll no' harm them. I need a few more honest answers from ye. Can ye provide them for me?”

His reasoning was fair, but that didn't mean she was going to like the interrogation. “That depends on the questions, Mr. Fraser.”

“My wife,” Mr. Fraser began, “tells me of things which will happen. Ye ken there is a war coming.”

“Yes.”

He grunted, immensely disliking her answer, and she wondered if he hadn’t believed his wife’s claim about the American Revolutionary War.

Or perhaps he didn’t want to.

“The English willna win,” he said.

“That is true.”

“Does it bother ye?” He cocked his head. “Yer Greek is fair, and ye look the part enough, but I ken ye’re an English lassie to boot. Do ye hold no sympathies for yer people or honor for yer king?”

“King George is not my king. As for my people, I haven't any who are anywhere relevant. My father's people are half-starved farmers under the reign of Louis XV—who is certainly not my king, either—and will not migrate to England for another twelve years. My mother's are in Greece. She will not leave Athens until 1973.”

"I take it ye will no' try to stop what's coming then."

Hermione attempted to picture the world without the United States of America. "I don't think I could, even if I gave it my all. If the revolution doesn't happen in ten years or fails all together, the cycle will start again. I think the only things I'd want to stop are slavery and the forced relocation of the indigenous tribes."

"The Indians, ye mean."

She shot him a sour look. "They are not from India."

"I ken that. Claire calls them Indians, as well, and she's from yer time."

"Claire sprung out of The Greatest Generation and is as old as my dead grannies. Of course, she calls them that."

"You call them indigenous where yer from then?"

"Some do. The term is slowly growing in popularity. Others still call them Indians, but it will age you terribly and label you as a crusty, old racist—"

"Racist?"

"In 2010, the descendants who are left of the tribes are generally termed Native Americans. For obvious reasons, I cannot openly refer to them here as such."

"Are ye teaching Willie this kind of thinking, lass?"

"I don't see how it's any your business what I'm teaching him."

“Mmphm,” grumbled Mr. Fraser who began assisting her in replanting the smaller potatoes. “Ye ever think ye were meant to be here.”

Her mind clouded with images of William, the sad and distraught boy. He needed a governess, but most importantly, he needed a kind of unconditional love a mother could give. Despite not planning to have any of her own anytime soon, Hermione loved children. She was godmother and aunt to ever-growing litters. She was good with kids and William, too. At the depths of his sorrow, she came into Grey’s employment.

“I want to say no.” Destiny. Fate. Those were too heavy of topics to be discussing in his wife’s garden. “Maybe I am. But I’m not meant to stay forever. I don’t belong here.”

“Willie—the lad—ye ken he loves you a great deal. I canna think he’ll let ye go easy.”

“He’ll be grown soon enough and won’t need me anymore,” she said, more to herself than to Mr. Fraser.

“And what of John?”

“What about him?”

Mr. Fraser mouth twitched like he found something amusing. “Never mind, lass. Let’s bring the crops inside. Ye ken how to cook in a cauldron pot? Claire’s keeping busy with her patient and willna have the time to prepare dinner.”

“Yes, I know how to work a cauldron. Cauldrons and I are friends.”

“Och, I take it ye’re a witch then like my Sassenach,” he said in jest.

She climbed to her feet, miffed how dirty her clothes were. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr. Fraser, but…witches aren’t real.”

The next morning, Barbie and Jamie’s horse were bridled, packed, and ready to go. Standing not far away in a borrowed, homespun dress of Claire’s, Hermione held William who stubbornly clung to her.

“Please don’t make me go.” He buried his face into her neck, sobbing.

“It’s not safe here, you’ll get sick,” she repeated for the hundredth time.

“What if you get sick—”

“I already had the measles and can’t get them again. Claire needs my help taking care of your father. Listen,” she pulled him away from her enough to cup his face, her thumbs wiping at his tears, “Mr. Fraser is going to take you on an adventure. You’ll be back before you know it.”

He sniffled, loud and ungentlemanly, and fell into her embrace again. “If Papa dies, are you going to send me away and marry Ian Murray?”

Over Willie’s shoulder, she caught Mr. Fraser’s smirk.

“No.”

“When we were hunting that deer, I told him you were the most horrible person to ever walk this planet. He was asking about you, you know? So I told him you were mean and awful and just the worst. I don’t think he believed me.” He groaned miserably. “He called you bonnie, and you’d make a…braw wife. What does that even mean?”

“Ian is very kind, and I’m flattered, but I shan’t be accepting a proposal if he should bring one my way.”

“Then he started talking about your bum—”

“All right. Off with you, and for God’s sake, behave yourself with Mr. Fraser. In Anna Ooka, you’ll meet indigenous people—"

“Why don’t you ever call them Indians?”

“—Be respectful to them, William, I mean it.” She hated to do it, but the time had come. Hermione whirled him around and pushed him closer to the horses and Mr. Fraser. She grinned at the man which came out more like a grimace. “Well, I wish you luck with my student. He’s mean and awful and just the worst.”

Mr. Fraser didn’t have any more patience for William’s dawdling. He grabbed the boy at his sides and lifted him onto Barbie. The boy yelped and raised his fist raised in promise.

“Don’t even think about it, young man!” Hermione warned.

“I’ll care for him as if he were my own,” said Mr. Fraser.

William kept starting over his shoulder at her as he and Jamie rode off into the distance, and she stayed put until they could no longer see one another.

By nightfall, Ian was sick.

Hermione brought the cup of willow bark tea to Grey’s mouth. He tried to do it himself, but his limbs were heavy and fingers clumsy. When Claire returned from the herb shed with an ill Ian, he foolishly tried to be noble and fling himself off the mattress to give Claire a hand and the poor lad the bed.

“You’re fine right there, John,” she told him. “Claire has him, and he’ll take the trundle.”

Hermione stepped closer to the wall to make room for Ian to lay down on the lower, corn-husk mattress. She continued to help John with the tea while Claire undressed her nephew and tucked him beneath the covers.

“I started a fresh kettle for more tea,” Hermione said to Claire, the last batch currently being slurped up by Grey. “We should have more soon.”

“Thank you,” Claire replied, frazzled. Her curls were starting to escape her updo, and Hermione hadn’t even bothered to try anything more than securing her own riotous mane with a simple ribbon.

Claire coaxed Ian’s head into her lap and rubbed his temples and then pressed the pads of her thumbs upwards into the pockets of his eyes. Hermione watched carefully.

“Hold still,” she instructed once Grey finished the tea.

“I do believe I shall go for a pleasant jaunt outside instead,” he quipped, his brow creasing in discomfort. “Oh, it does hurt to be witty, Hermione. Apologies if I cannot sally more with you.”

She leaned over and rubbed his temples. “It’s just as well. You’d lose your way and get eaten by a bear.”

“Whatever stops this blistering headache, though your touch is helping. Thank you.” He closed his eyes, sighing blissfully. Hermione took the opportunity to mimic Claire’s ministrations further and press upwards into the sockets of his eyes. A low, pleased moan trickled out of his mouth, and Hermione had to press her lips together to keep from giggling.

He sounded like…

Well, no matter what he sounded like.

“Your hands are magnificent,” he murmured.

“Go to sleep. I have much to do.”

“Like what? Willie’s gone.”

“Someone has to empty your chamber pot and help Claire with the chores.”

His already rouged cheeks reddened further from embarrassment.  The privy was not terribly far, but he was in no condition to seek its more private and remote setting. “Will you sleep outside again tonight?”

“It'll be a wonder if I sleep at all.”

“It’s much too cold. You’ll catch your death.”

“If I do manage a wink, it’ll be with the bear.”

“Ah, yes. Death will catch you, I see.” He chuckled, his neck muscles relaxing. Hermione’s fingers massaged his eyes, brow, and then back to his temples. By then he was asleep, and his flushed, clammy features were softened.

It really was unfair how pretty he was, measles and all.

Ian had not faired so well in falling asleep. Every time his aunt went to retract her hands, he whimpered and grunted.

“Would you like me to take over?” asked Hermione, handing her a cup of the newly brewed bark willow tea.

She shook her head. “Fetch me a cold, wet cloth, then have yourself some stew and bread. Once he’s down, we’ll get caught up on the housework.”

After a fuss and ruckus concerning Rollo, which caused John to spring awake ready to shoot, both patients were finally asleep. Hermione and Claire tidied up the eating area and started scrubbing and shelling a basket of peanuts.

Glancing over at Grey and Ian, both asleep, Hermione said quietly, “You know what I miss? Peanut butter.”

“Oh, God.” Claire stretched her long neck and stared whimsically up at the ceiling. Her tongue darted out, licking her full lips. She crushed a shell and popped a peanut into her mouth, giving Hermione the other. “We should make some, and I’ll send you off with a few jars. You can make Willie peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Hermione raised her brows. “I’ve not met many of my fellow English who care for peanut butter and jelly.”

“Don’t tell anybody, but I also prefer Hershey over Cadbury.”

“The shame.” Hermione giggled and dropped her voice even lower. “If our dear Queen Elizabeth appeared here now, she’d denounce you on the spot for your cheek.”

“That woman is still alive?”

“Didn't you know? She’s going to outlive everyone.”

“But it’s the ones with the almonds I like. I’m sure Her Majesty would like them, too. They’re so good.”

“I can’t judge you too harshly. My standards have lowered significantly in the last several months. If a Hershey bar did so happen my way, I’d have rough sex with it and not even be mad if I got pregnant.”

Claire bent over, wheezing. Hand to her chest and tears of mirth and exhaustion streaming down her face. When she sobered, she noticed Hermione rubbing the small of her back and gave the girl a knowing smile.

“Fancy a cup of raspberry leaf tea.”

God, the woman and her unlimited supply of horrible teas. But if it was the best she could do?

Hermione nodded, wishing for pain-relieving potions or at least an ibuprofen.

With the chores done, Claire wanted privacy as did Hermione. Coffee warming their hands and blankets draped around their shoulders, they crept outside and made themselves comfortable on the porch.

“I’ve wanted to ask you something. Well, there’s quite a lot I want to ask you, but the first will have to be…when you came through in Hispaniola. Were there…I mean…there were human remains. Did you see them?”

“Yes,” she said, quiet.

“Did you…disturb them?”

“No. I…kind of screamed when I saw them and ran out of the cave. I eventually went back, but…it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Claire must’ve sensed her embarrassment. “You poor dear. I imagine you were awfully confused.”

“I still am.”

The older woman put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close as a mother would.

“Thank you again for the dress,” said Hermione, slapping at the dirt gathered at the hem. “I’m sorry I’m so short, though.”

Claire chuckled, squeezing her. “Tell me who you are, Hermione. I’ve told you a great deal about me. I want to know about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, Hermione can't be your real name."

Snickering ruefully, she rested her head on Claire's shoulder. "My mother's name is Helena, and my father's favorite play in the whole, wide world is The Winter's Tale. I am most certainly Hermione."

"What a cruel thing to give a little girl."

"Out of the vast sea of Emmas and Gemmas, there I was with my weird name, frizzy hair, and bucked teeth. At least I have a half-decent brain going for me."

"Your hair is not frizzy." Claire petted Hermione's brown, glossy curls. Not too dissimilar to her own. The locks were undeniably springy but certainly not frizzy by any stretch of the imagination. "And your teeth are not bucked."

"They were. I am no swan, but I was definitely an ugly duckling."

"I can't believe that for a second." Claire snorted. "You always had your eyes."

"My eyes are brown and boring."

"Did your husband tell you that?" Claire asked testily.

"Well...no. He liked my eyes." She pulled away from Claire to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "He said they were like a fawn's."

 "They are," she agreed. Doe-eyed, darling, and small-bodied; Hermione was a tantalizing prey. John knew exactly what would've happened to her if he let her go off to Virginia by herself.

"Is Christakos your last name, as well."

"My mother's maiden name. My last name is Granger."

“That is very English and very traceable. No wonder you didn’t use it. Is that your married name?”

 “I never legally took my husband’s name. I was and am too much of a feminist.”

“And he was all right with that? Because neither of my husbands would’ve agreed to that.”

“Eh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He called me Granger most of the time, anyway, and I called him Malfoy. That was his last name. It’s our thing. It was, anyway.”

“Malfoy.” Claire made a face, not liking the taste of the name on her tongue. “It’s…odd. Is that French?”

“I think so. Let’s see…” She leaned back on her hands, taking a sip of coffee. “I was born in Surrey in 1979 to two dentists.”

“Which explains your nice teeth.”

If she only knew...

“I was also born an only child, but I do have close friends I see as siblings. Around the time I got married and told my mum I wouldn’t be having children anytime soon, she and Dad joined Doctors Without Borders for a year. When they came home, they had with them twins they adopted while serving at a refugee camp in Ethiopia.”

“Doctors Without Borders. I like the sound of that,” Claire said, intrigued. “Going into the medical field like them wasn’t something you wanted?”

“I was working my way up the ladder in hopes of becoming…” Hermione bit her lip and half-lied. “Prime Minister.”

Shock rippled over Claire’s face, and she sputtered. “Pr-Prime Minister. That’s…remarkably ambitious. Would you be the first female to do so if you won your campaign.”

Hermione shook her head. “The year I was born, Margaret Thatcher came into office.”

“Margaret Thatcher.” Claire stroked her chin. “I might recall her as a member of parliament, but I was here in the States during that time. Never mind, though, that’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Oh, one of those,” Claire said knowingly. “The queen is still alive, you say. Are she and Phillip well?”

"They'd would be offended if we dare thought otherwise."

“And here in the United States? Are you familiar with what’s going on here in 2010?”

“A recession.”

“Damn.”

“England isn’t doing so well either.”

“Double damn.”

“There’s a small baby boom happening. No one has jobs, they’re all at home. Stress is a factor. Sex feels good. Babies are cute. You understand.”

“I think so.”

“Oh, and you know.” Hermione flicked her hand, making a bland face. “War. Evil. Tons of it. Everywhere.”

“I'm sure there is also good,” Claire said gently. “I know it’s probably easier to only think of the bad. Evil is both a loud and visual thing whereas good is quiet and rarely spotted."

Hermione almost smiled and offered, “Two years ago, the first black president of the United States was elected to office."

“That is amazing,” agreed Claire. “What else?”

“Hm…well, Disney World.”

“I might’ve heard a rumor that a larger park than Disneyland would be opening before I left to come back here.”

“It’s overwhelming and almost a horrible crime to even attend because appreciating everything is impossible. Paris has a Disneyland now as does Tokyo and Hong Kong. Disney has released a plethora of films, including more princess movies.”

A slow, nostalgic smile split Claire’s face. “I got to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarves at the cinema when it was first released. That and Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I took my Brianna to those last two. Oh God, my daughter couldn’t go a few hours without singing Once upon a dream. Then we’d recite the film together.”

“Indeed?” Hermione smirked. “We want you to pick some berries.”

Claire didn’t even hesitate. “Berries?”

“Lots of berries.”

“But I picked berries yesterday.”

“We need more, dear, lots more.”

"Sleeping Beauty is all well and good, but I love Beauty and the Beast. It will come out in 1991. At the Disney parks, as you know, you can be hired to dress as characters. I've never told anyone this, but I really, really wanted to be Belle in Paris for a year before uni.”

"Why didn't you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I was in love and planning a wedding. Do you know much about Greek weddings?"

"Can't say I do."

"They are ridiculously huge, and I am my mother's only child. There was no way I was going to get away with eloping. The engagement fell through, though, and when I did marry the man who would be my husband, we eloped. Neither of our parents approved of our relationship, and neither of our mothers got out of bed for a month after we told them."

Maybe her mother saw something wicked and alarming in Hermione's husband and knew he would hurt her sooner or later, Claire privately thought. Mothers know, and she hoped and trusted Brianna would find a good man who loved and adored her and was not secretly a psychopath. Her mind drifted briefly to Roger and then dismissed it, knowing she'd drive herself mad with grief and heartache imagining all she'd miss of her baby girl's life.

Claire felt for Hermione's mother. Having an opinionated, stubborn, headstrong daughter was not always ideal and, in fact, could very well break a mummy's heart. Mrs. Granger never got to see her daughter and only child walk down the aisle, and it was approaching impossible that she ever would.

"There's something I want to show you. I'll be right back." Claire went inside the cabin and returned a minute later, handing Hermione something roundish and wrapped in cloth. "I found this not too long ago. As a daughter of a dentist, I think you'll appreciate it."

Removing the cloth, Hermione flinched at the sight of the skull and then cautiously picked it up and turned it upside down. Claire had brought a candle from inside, as well, and placed it near the maxilla bone, so she could better see what the older woman referred to.

"Oh, my God," whispered Hermione, pressing the pad of her pointer finger one of the metal fillings. "You said you found this here. Now?"

Claire nodded. "And the remains you saw in the cave. They belonged to a woman who also traveled from another time. Like your husband, she believed a sacrifice was necessary. She left in the 1960s through Craigh na Dun and was going to return via Abandawe by sacrificing Ian, so she could kill my daughter. She thought that...I guess it doesn't matter what she thought."

"No, it doesn't," Hermione said, quiet. A solemn smirk ghosted over face. "I understand why you killed her, Claire."

"I didn't say I did."

"So another Mama Bear got her?"

Claire's laugh was damp and pulled Hermione close, rocking her. The young woman needed her mother, and Claire wanted her daughter. This bond they were forming would have to feed the longing.

“I’ve only known you a few days, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to send you off with John fucking Grey when the time comes. Since you got here, you are one less person I don’t have to pretend with, and it’s so bloody nice. I think if it had just been me here tending to him and Ian, I would’ve lost my goddamned mind.”

“You really don’t like John, do you?”

Claire sniffed, sort of playing with Hermione’s hair with her fingers. “Oh, he’s polite enough. It’s just…complicated.”

“He’s in love with your husband,” Hermione said, circling back to that discussion from a couple of days prior. "And I do think he would’ve entirely forgotten Willie and me in the forest if you hadn’t found us. We probably would still be out there waiting for him to come back for us. He’d be here playing chess with your husband, racking his feverish brain on what he might’ve displaced."

"My husband does have that effect on people, I'm afraid."

"In a lot of ways, he reminds me of my first love. Ron was an excellent chess player. He was also a tall, stubborn ginger. Proud and pigheaded. I loved those things about him in small doses, but they often upset me more than anything, and I didn't want to bring that into a marriage. I wanted him to change, and I realized almost too late that I entered into a forever relationship naively believing he would shape himself into the man I wanted. And what I wanted was to not have to compete with his pride. You're a strong woman, Claire, for putting up with Mr. Fraser, and the woman Ron married is, too."

"You're plenty strong, Hermione. If you weren't, I doubt you would've made it out of Hispaniola alive or survive being Willie's governess."

"That boy is going to give me gray hairs."

"You miss him."

Hermione softly grunted. "I just worry. He doesn't do well at night. He tends to get sad and likes to be held."

Irrational jealousy flooded Claire's heart. She was his true step-mother. Why couldn't she have been the one to be there for Willie? "And you hold him."

"It's cruel to deny children comfort."

"Does John know?"

"Yes...I mean I think so. He saw Willie and I the other night, but he was drunk off his arse, so..." Hermione shrugged. 

"He's getting too big. At some point, you will have to turn him away, Hermione."

"At some point, you will have to mind your own bloody business, Claire." Hermione disentangled herself from Claire's arms, and the sound of Ian moaning from inside the cabin could be heard. He was awake again and miserable. Hermione folded her arms and glared at her. "Go tend to your nephew, but by all means, don't hold him or comfort him. He's far too old to receive anything but dispassionate care."

Stomping down the porch steps, she abandoned Claire and headed for the stable, punching a pile of hay a few times before settling onto of it. Clarence, Claire's trusty mule, trotted over and roughly licked her face, the surprising force of it tipping her sideways.

God, it was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

The morning came, and Hermione was correct in her assessment. She hadn't slept. John woke again way before dawn, rash coming in hot and itchy, as had Ian. The boy finally settled again in the wee hours of the morning, and Claire fell into a light sleep in her rocking chair, leaving Hermione to frown impatiently at the yarn and knitting needles in her hands.

“You truly don’t know how to knit,” assessed Grey from the bed.

“Hush, go back to sleep.”

“I’m trying to think of a single person, save the king himself, who doesn’t know how to darn a simple sock.”

“Claire can barely do it.”

Grey pursed his lips in consideration. “You two are most peculiar.”

Hermione knew a few spells for knitting, having once made hats for elves. Molly had tried to teach her more of the art of it sometime ago, but the younger woman never thoroughly mastered the magic. As the years went on, Hermione's work actually worsened. Her end product became laughable and never resembled what it was supposed to. Frustrated, she reverted to the blasted elf hats and even that she couldn't do anymore.

Unsurprisingly, knitting manually wasn't going to work for her either.

“If you haven't figured it out yet, John, most women are.”

“You’re practically strangers, you and her. Yet, I get the impression she knows you better than I or Willie do.”

Hermione scooched the knots of yarn off her lap and back into the basket and went to fetch him a cup of tea. Sitting down at his side, she extended the cup in offering. “It’s a girl thing.”

“A girl thing,” he repeated, testing the phrase and apparently finding it lacking. “What in God’s good name does that mean?”

“We recognized each other’s desperation. We were both at our wits’ ends with the men in our lives and needed to vent to one another about it. Therefore, we bonded."

Grey sipped at his tea, scrutinizing her over the cup. “Yet, I swore I heard you two bickering on the porch last night. Is that how women bond?”

"That's how I bond."

"Is that how you have bonded in the past with close acquaintances."

"Yes."

"Even your husband."

"Especially him. That's how I get to know people. I disagree with them, point out their errors, and do my best in steering them on the right path."

"I cannot imagine doing that earned you a husband, let alone any friendships."

"I confess in being rather blunt as a child. As I grew older and developed better social skills, I communicated my observations with better etiquette."

"Oh, so you found a more charming way in telling people how utterly wrong they are. You have the makings, dear girl, of a fine English aristocrat and would most suitably fit in at Court. You could marry well if you played your cards right."

Hermione arched a brow. "You sound serious, so I best act the same. John, I'll never remarry."

Leaning back to rest his head on the pillow, his blue eyes gazing out the window. "Never is a long time, Hermione. What if you again find love? Your late husband would wish you happiness."

No, he wouldn't. Draco would have expected her to be miserable without him for the rest of her days. If things hadn't unfolded the way they had and Draco had died prematurely, she very well could've aged a grumpy, old widow. Like Queen Victoria, always wearing black. Always in mourning. Forever missing her Albert.

"Well," Hermione started, "I suppose this hypothetical new love and I will have to live in sin."

"Do not speak in jest about such things."

"I'm not joking," she said, tone sharpened.

"Hermione, I will not allow it. I could not stand the horrible claims people would say about you. Not to mention if you were to bear offspring. A child of your womb does not deserve the burden of being born a bastard. The cruelty and judgment your child would be subjugated to—"

"You can't stop me from doing anything, John! You don't own me! I could run away, join the Cherokee, bear a dozen children from a dozen tribesmen, and there's nothing you could do about it. And if anyone was brainless enough to insult my babies, I'd rip out their fucking tongue, so they could lick the shit from their own arsehole!"

A choking sound erupted from the trundle, and Hermione looked down to see Ian's face screwed up in pained mirth. "Ye've got a filthier mouth than my Auntie, Madam" he wheezed. "But I still like ye fine."

"Now Hermione—" John tried.

Hermione fled the cabin, grabbing an empty basket and charging out the door to find solace in the chicken coop whilst gathering eggs. When that didn’t take up enough time in completely cooling her temper, though, she cozied up to Claire’s mule, feeding him and telling him what a nice, gentle boy he was.

“Such a gentleman you are, Clarence,” she murmured, rubbing the space between his ears while her other hand fed him hay. “And so handsome, too. You would never tell me what to do or insult my non-existent children because you're smart, darling. So, so smart. And because you're such a good boy, I’m going to give you some oats, too.”

Clarence happily, and quite piercingly, brayed hideously, evoking a girlish scream from Hermione. His ruckus sounded like it also caused an upset in the cabin, for Rollo howled even louder, infuriating Claire, and bounded out the open window.

Hermione ran out of the cramped stable and then abruptly stopped when seeing the pudgy, gray-bearded man a safe distance away from the porch and Rollo. The dog growled and bared his teeth in promise of attacking if necessary.

Claire burst out of the cabin, the anticipation on her face melting away at the sight of the visitor.

“Down, wicked dog!” she chastised. “Be quiet, I say.”

“Rollo, come here,” beckoned Hermione, maybe using a little magic. The hound quieted and then trotted delightedly in her direction, tongue lolling. Once Rollo reached her, she knelt and gave him a good, thorough scratch behind the ears. “Yes, you’re a good boy, too, huh? Don’t listen to Claire. You’re just trying to protect us from the fat man, huh?”

“Pastor Gottfried, to what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Claire the visitor, befuddled.

“Meine Dame,” he greeted Claire, removing his brim hat and bowing deeply at her. He then turned to Hermione and repeated the same sentiment. He then put his attention back to Claire. “Ist Euer Mann hier?”

“Uh…” Claire looked at Hermione, silently asking the obvious.

“He’s speaking German,” piped Hermione

“I know that. What is he saying?”

“I don’t know.”

“John said you speak six languages.”

“German is not one of them. Oh, that reminds me.” Hermione grinned. “The Iron Curtain was dismantled in ’91. Germany is whole again.”

“That’s wonderful, Hermione.” Claire beamed and then seemed to remember their unexpected guest. She shook her head and gestured towards the woods.

The pastor appeared put out about the meaning of the crude sign language and started speaking rapidly. The confusion on Claire’s face had him turning to Hermione and repeating himself, this time slower and louder.

Grey then emerged from the cabin, trousers on and barefooted, pistol at the ready. “Was ist los?” he asked the pastor.

The pastor gave the man a scandalized look which quickly melted when Grey spoke again. The two conversed for a minute or two before Claire lost her patience.

“What?” Claire frowned at Grey. “What on Earth is he saying?”

Grey belayed her an expression of regret and asked if she knew of the Mueller family and Claire replied that she did, having recently paid them a visit to deliver a baby.

“The child is dead, I’m afraid and so is the mother.”

Oh.

Rollo rolled onto his back, and Hermione rubbed his belly, contemplating the fragility of 18^th century Muggle life. That very day, Ian or even John could die. Both healthy and vibrant men taking their last breaths before afternoon tea. How unfair and almost selfish it was for the magical community to withhold their miraculous medicines. On a cold and practical level, Hermione understood the hiding. The potions and tonics could serve one percent of the magical people populating the planet. For the other seven billion, it was unlikely and would cause chaos, wars, and political turmoil. The rich and the elite would be served first and then whoever came next.

Hermione's grandmother was lucky enough to die peacefully and expectedly. Old and ancient, her legacy and priest crammed into the sitting room of her Brighton home. In that very room and on that very day, Hermione learned her thirty-six year old cousin had stage four breast cancer and would likely leave behind her two children and life-partner to join Granny before next Christmas.

Christmas was in two months, and Hermione didn't know if Lysandra was still alive. And she hated herself for acting like a coward and not pulling a few strings at St. Mungo's to help her family when she had the chance. She could have, damn it, and she didn't because she was afraid of throwing around her status. Once Hermione returned to her time, when she became Minister of Magic, there would be changes. The Muggle family members of Muggle-Borns and Half-Bloods would be cared for. 

Claire sat down by the bench beside the door, not taking the news well while Grey continued to act as a translator. Ironically and heartbreaking, the measles took the mother and child, and the pastor came to find Jamie, believing he could act as grief counselor and peace-maker to Herr Mueller who seemed to be an unreasonable sort of person. The kind of person to let grief and anger fester.

As John’s translation continued, Claire and Hermione learned about how the day before the measles infected the Muellers, a group of Natives came to their property asking for food and water. Herr Mueller, offended by their mere existence and audacity to even come upon his property, harassed them until they left. Prior to leaving, however, one of the men gestured oddly to the house, and Mueller interpreted this sign as a curse when the members of his family became ill. He marked the walls of his house, painting symbols to ward off the evil the Natives placed on his family and then called for a Pastor from Salem to exercise his house.

Despite the effort, Mother and Baby passed away, and Herr Mueller swore he would have his revenge. He left with his sons and sons-in-law on a quest for blood and returned alarmingly satisfied. At this point the Pastor had been summoned again, this time by Herr Gottfried. When he arrived, he immediately noticed bound locks of black hair hanging from the door of Mueller’s barn. Painted underneath was the word Rache.

“That means revenge,” John offered needlessly.

“I know,” Claire squeaked. “I’ve read Sherlock Holmes—”

“It’s a great book,” Hermione said to herself, quietly.

“You mean he…” Claire’s word died on her tongue.

“Evidently so,” said Grey.

The pastor seized Claire by the arm, shouting at her, his own tone dripping in fright. Grey stiffened, and he snapped his gaze towards Hermione.

“Get inside, Hermione. You, too, Claire.” He nodded at the pastor. “I understand.”

“What did he say?”

“Mueller's coming here.”

“What?” Hermione and Claire asked in unison.

“Why? Is—he couldn’t. He couldn’t think I had done anything to Petronella or the baby. Could he?”

John continued translating. “The clerical gentleman doesn’t know what Mueller thinks, or what his purpose is in coming here.” He then sighed in mild relief. “Much to his credit he set off alone, hell-for-leather after Mueller and found him two hours later—insensible by the side of the road. Too much drink and not enough food, I gather. All in all, this fine man has come to warn us of Mueller’s impending visit.”

The pastor asked a question, though physically making it known he was suggesting Claire should leave the premises at once.

“I can’t leave.” Claire attempted a bit in German and then John aided her in.

It was decided at once the pastor should be thanked for the warning and leave given Ian’s contagious state. No longer contagious himself, John escorted the man to his horse with what sounded like promises in his tone.

“I have told him I am a soldier; that I will not let any harm come to any of you.”

Once the man disappeared from view, John cast her an exasperated glance. “I told you to get inside.”

“What will we do if Mueller comes?” Hermione asked, stubbornly not moving.

“Nothing,” he stated. “You will do nothing. I will take care of it.”

Claire hugged herself. “Oh, God. I wish Jamie were here.”

“So do I, though I begin to think that William may be far safer with him than the boy might be here—and not only by the reason of illness.”

“You shouldn’t even be up. Go in and lie down at once!” Claire exclaimed.

Hermione got to the porch, Rollo shadowing her. She brushed the back of her hand on John's scabbed cheek and sweaty forehead. “You’re not looking well.”

“I’m quite all right,” he said, indigent and a little pouty, and he leaned into her as she guided him to the bed while Claire tended to Ian.

Hermione stared down at the Ian, her stomach tying in knots at the sight of him. Rollo sniffed and nudged the young man and serviced an inquiringly lick to his cheek.

“He’ll be all right,” Claire promised the dog. “Why don’t you go outside and keep an eye out for visitors?”

“I’ll take him out. I need to finish up in the stables anyway and feed the goats. I’ll check your garden, too, and give another—” offered Hermione.

“No!” Claire folded her arms and stared at Hermione like she had three heads.

John groaned from the bed, eyes closed in both agony and annoyance. “For the love of God, you will stay inside—”

“There are still chores needing done, and Claire needs to be here to tend to both of you. In case you didn’t know, the world hasn’t stopped because a pastor came bearing troubling news. The chickens need fed and the garden needs tending—”

“And if this Herr Mueller comes charging up to you, you’re just going to do what exactly? Challenge him to a game of wits?” John snapped.

Hermione shrugged a shoulder. “Just be quiet, all of you, and I will tell him Claire and Jamie have gone to Cross Creek for a few days. It’s just me, and I have no qualm with him.”

“Mueller isn’t known for being reasonable, Hermione,” said Claire. “He may not believe you and try to hurt you. The goats and garden can wait. There’s still much I need help with in here, too—”

“The animals need care as does the garden. I will be fine.” She went to leave John’s side, but he grabbed her hand. She glared down at the sweaty appendage. “You will stay in this bed and mind Claire. Do I make myself clear?”

“I am your employer, Hermione. I am not William. I’m not a child you can—”

She unfolded the top of the sheets and threw them over his head to muffle his voice. “Go to sleep, damn you, and dream of something nice.”

John, that bastard, did not go to sleep and instead, took advantage of Hermione’s stubbornness to talk to Claire privately. Hermione hadn’t any idea what the two were talking about while she worked outside. All she knew was that every time she entered the cabin for a brief minute to empty a basket or bucket and get a drink of water, the tension between them lessened. The underlying jealousy of one another was, for all intents and purposes, present and tangible. Yet, there was genuine kindness instead of begrudging concern coming from Claire and heart-constricting acceptance from John. The two had worn each other down by bonding over the one thing they had in common. John and Claire could try and dislike each other all they wanted, but Hermione knew Claire would be fighting a losing battle. Lord John Grey was impossible to hate and one of the more decent aristocrats 18^th century England offered.

Not too deep under the militant poise and good breeding, he was a sweetheart and true gentleman. A characteristic hard to find in men in the 1700s as well as 2010.

As for William, he was not a sweetheart. Hermione did call him that sometimes, more out of wishful thinking. And no matter how much she or his father disciplined him or attempted to mold him in such a manner, the young earl would never blossom into one. He’ll be a fine gentleman, undoubtedly, but he won’t be like John.

Following a drop-off of a basket filled with cucumbers and dandelions to Claire, Hermione then sat down on the tiny stool next to the mama goat in her pen. Wringing her fingers, she frowned at the empty bucket and the bloated udder above it.

Okay, she could figure this out. How hard could it be milking a goat? Her mother and grandmother had done it before moving to England.

“I can do this,” whispered Hermione. “I can do anything because my mummy and daddy said I could, and so I will.”

Mulling through the memories of limited telly-watching and her decent knowledge of films, she couldn’t recall a single moment of watching a goat get milked. A cow, yes. Twice, if even that. The newer programs displayed suction machinery attached to the teats. Hardly anyone, at least in the first-world, western hemisphere, manually milked cows anymore.

Even breastfeeding women rigged themselves with pumps.

“I’m sure I’ll get this,” she muttered, experimentally poking a teat and doing her best to not feel like a pervert. “Sorry, Nanny,” she couldn’t help but say.

Nanny chewed lazily and blissfully on some straw, and Hermione was at least grateful the goat wasn’t an aggressive sort.

Like the blasted pig.

Nervously, Hermione clocked the white sow flush against the north side of the cabin. Her beady eyes narrowed and menacing and famished.

“I am a person,” she called out to the pig. “I’m a person, and you can’t eat me! That is not how the circle of life works.”

White Sow snarled.

“Jesus said I could eat you. It’s right there in the good book.”

The massive ball of spotted pale-pinkness threateningly trotted a few steps forward, emerging from the shadow of the cabin.

“And you’re not having the milk I get from Nanny.”

The creature stole another step forward, and Hermione’s hackles rose in alarm. As fat as the beast was, she’d been warned by Claire how fast and dedicated White Sow was, especially when riled.

Rustling from a bush stopped the pig in her tracks. Her snout lifted, sniffing the air, and Hermione saw a boar’s head pop out of the leafy greens. For the first time in many, many years, Hermione crossed herself.

A murderous and racist German, Hermione could handle. A boar and a beast, probably not. The hog family were exceptionally difficult to enchant, and boars themselves were damned near impossible to kill. Grown men have died trying.

In a blink, White Sow lunged at the boar, the two portly brutes vanishing in the thicket of green. An ungodly sound of mating had Hermione sit abruptly down on the rickety wooden stool and get to work on trying to milk Nanny. Her face flushed and ears ringing in promise of contracting PTSD from the sacrilegious symphony of pig sex.

Two hours later with a crick in her neck and hands throbbing, Hermione let out a sigh of self-satisfaction. She did it. The goat was milked and the bucket full. A fine feast of creamy cheese they’d have for dinner.

Rollo, who’d been standing watch by the barn, barked. Rubbing her neck, Hermione stood and glanced tiredly and calmly at the unfamiliar man approaching her. Rollo bounded over the pen, putting himself in front of Hermione and growling at the man who must be Mueller.

“May I help you?” she asked politely.

“Frau Klara?” he asked, pointing to the cabin.

Hermione shook her head, waving a dismissive hand towards the trees. “Cross Creek with her husband.”

His already miserable countenance deepened into a resentful irritation but seemed to accept the woman’s absence. From the recess of his coat, he pulled a wrapped cloth and offered it to Hermione. She took it with an awkward dip of her chin.

“Thank you,” she said, apprehensive. Rollo stopped growling and nudged his wet nose at Hermione’s hand, sniffing and licking the skin, wanting to get at what was inside.

“Give Frau Klara,” he said. “Keep Frau Klara safe.”

Hermione watched him leave before going into the cabin and handing over the wrapped cloth to Claire.

“He came, but he’s gone now. It’s all right,” she said, a queerness settling in her chest despite how anti-climactic everything played out.

Claire almost unwrapped the offering right there but must’ve thought better of it. “I think I’ll wait until Jamie returns.”

She set the bundle aside and returned to nursing Ian and John who had finally fell asleep.

Jamie and Willie returned the next day and by nightfall, John was able to sit at the table for dinner and sleep in the herb shed with William. Ian occupied the bed. He had a rougher go of it, but Claire was confident he’d pull through. Just to be sure, before she retired for the night, Hermione sat next to him on the bed, leaned down, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“You best get better,” she warned.

“Och, aye,” he nodded lethargically, his lips curling into an exhausted smile. “Once I do, I’ll come whisk ye away from Virginia and bring ye back here. Auntie likes ye fine and wishes to keep ye. Ye’ll make her a fine niece and Christmas present.”

She interlaced her small fingers through his long ones. His hands were massive compared to hers. “You’re going to forget all about me, I’m sure. I hear the Cherokee harbor beautiful young ladies. Rumor has it, you’ve captured a few hearts, so I best keep mine safe from you, Ian Murray.”

“I canna forget ye.” He shifted beneath the covers, eyes drifting closed. “Ye made my auntie laugh and feel safe when I couldna. Ye’re not just a handsome woman; I ken ye’re a kind and strong soul.”

Hermione patted his cheek and folded the top of his sheets, tucking him in. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered, bending over again to kiss him. This time on his forehead.

When she went outside, Claire was waiting for her on the porch with two steaming mugs of tea. Hermione took one, and both sat down on the steps and huddled under a large blanket. The older woman leaned into Hermione, her head resting on the younger’s shoulder.

"I'm sorry for the other night," said Claire. "I suppose I'm jealous. I haven't had a child to hold in quite some time."

"Are you sure you don't want to try for one? You're healthy and a doctor. I'm sure everything would be fine."

Claire laughed, a throaty and thick sound, and she shook her head and then smiled sadly at her. “You…you don’t have to leave tomorrow, Hermione. You can stay here. Jamie and I…we’ll figure out a gemstone for you and get you to Scotland.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Does Jamie know what you’re offering?”

“Jamie…” Claire lifted her head, taking a sip of her tea. “Jamie is afraid.”

“Of what? Me?”

She chuckled. “Frankly, yes. In more ways than one. John is a good friend of his, and my husband has come to very much care about William—”

“Because Jamie is his biological father.”

Claire gasped, and Hermione quickly took her hand. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I swear. I swear on my grandmother’s grave.”

“Did…Did John tell you?” Claire spat.

“No. He doesn’t know I know, and I will never bring it up to him. I don’t know the details. I don’t need or want to know them. All I know is that there is no mistaking the resemblance between the two.”

Claire exhaled a shaky breath. “You promise you won’t say anything?”

“I said I wouldn’t.”

“William could lose everything.”

“I would never do him harm, Claire.” Hermione cocked her head. “Does Jamie think I will?”

A quiet moment passed and then a soft, “Yes,” filled the air between them.

Hermione frowned at her. “I…Claire, I love him.” Her voice broke, and her eyes burned. “I love him as much as I love my nephews back home. He’s—”

“You love William, but sooner or later, you will have to leave him. Sooner would be best. William loves you and not like a nephew loves an aunt and perhaps not precisely like a child loves his mother, but it’s close, Hermione. You will devastate him when you leave because it’s not like he’ll be able to write to you and be aware of your welfare. You will be gone from him forever, and he you. This can’t be the first time you’re thinking about the inevitable separation."

“It’s…not." Wiping underneath her eyes, Hermione looked at her lap.

Claire brushed the back of her fingers over Hermione’s cheek, smearing a stray tear or two. “Stay here. It will be easier to rip off the Band Aid now.”

“And tell him and John what exactly?” Hermione snorted mirthlessly. “To them, I have absolutely no reason to stay here.”

“We’ll,” Claire shrugged, “tell him you and Ian are going to get married—”

“John would never believe that.”

“As opposed to the truth? If not Ian, then someone else. Mueller now has a widowed son—”

“Let the poor man mourn—”

“That’s not how it works here,” snapped Claire, helplessly shaking her head. “That’s another thing that frightens Jamie and me. I thought I was fearless, but you are dangerously so, Hermione. I overheard what you said to John. Women don't talk like that here. They can't. Not to a man and certainly not to a Lord, for Christ's sake. You come from a time where women can speak freely and can be elected as leaders. There is no entitlement like that for us here. There’s no fairness. I am property. I am Jamie’s property which has to suit me because he protects me. You are property, too, but unowned. There is no one to protect you in Virginia. John will do his best for you, but if someone more powerful than him wants to claim you—”

“Claim me? No one—”

“Look at yourself.” Claire jumped to her feet and began to pace, hands on her hips. “You are unmarried, educated, and in case it’s escaped your notice, terrifyingly pretty. It won’t matter to any man you haven’t got a bloody cent to your name. Lynchburg will not be kind to you. It won’t be safe. If you truly want to make it back to your time, you’ll stay here! Do I make myself clear?”

Early the next morning, Jamie found Hermione alone in the barn brushing Barbie.

“Saying goodbye to the wee lass, I see,” he said, patting the mare’s flank. “Aye, yer Barbie is a sweet lady. She cared fer Willie just fine this last week and will see him well to Virginia.”

“I’m not staying, Mr. Fraser.”

“Oh, but ye are. My sassenach is fond of ye and would be most displeased if ye got hurt which is what’ll happen if ye head off with John. Ye willna last the winter in your farse of widowhood wearing that face.”

“I’ll put a bloody bag over my head then. Honestly, my face has never been a problem for me until I came to this stupid year.”

“I verra much doubt that. And if it’s not yer face, it’ll be your tongue getting ye in trouble. Both John and William told me things. Ye’re mouthier than my wife which willna bode well for ye. Here on the Ridge…” He cocked his head. “Ye’ll be able tae speak freely enough.”

“I thank you for the invitation, but I can’t allow you or your wife to accommodate me until an unknown time when you may or may not be able to get a gemstone and find me passage to Scotland. You have land, and that’s an impressive thing. But you don’t have money and when you do manage to get ahold of a gemstone or two, you’re not going to want to give me one.” She smiled knowingly at him. “You’ll want them for Claire in case something happens.”

“Och, we’ll make do,” he said dismissively, “as will ye. We canna provide you a proper bed, save the trundle, but yer belly will be full. Claire’ll keep you entertained with her knowledge of wee herbs and keep ye healthy with them, too, until it’s yer time to leave.”

Hermione shuddered, imagining sleeping on the trundle bed. Last night, Hermione had been awake and restless underneath the stars when she saw Claire dressed in only her shift tiptoe out of the cabin and to the barn where her husband had been laying his head for the night.

If only they made squealy pig noises. Aside from grunting, they were a verbal sort of pair, and apparently, Claire never again wanted Jamie’s cock to leave ‘its home’, and Jamie never again wanted to go another day without seeing his wife’s ‘jiggly bum and wobbly breasts’.

Hermione was traumatized and, frankly, astounded at their stamina. They went at it for hours, and they weren’t newlyweds, nor were they young. Plus, she doubted they would sneak out to the barn every night they wanted to make love. They wouldn’t stop their coupling in their own bed on her account.

“Uh…” Hermione noised lamely, blushing. “I think I’ll just go. This is my problem, and I have to be the one to fix it. I’m not the sort of person to have other people do it for me.”

“Ye’ll stay, lassie, and that’s final. I’ll willna lay hands on ye unless ye leave me nae choice.”

Arching a brow, she folded her arms and cocked her hip. “All right, you want to make decisions for me. Fine. That means you can speak for me. If you want me to stay, you have to tell John and Willie I won’t be going with them to Virginia, and you can make up any story you want as to why. Doesn’t matter because I won’t say a goddamned word when they’re looking to me for answers. Furthermore, you can kiss goodbye your friendship to John and the fond memories Willie will have of you from these past few days. John will be confused and betrayed, and Willie will leave here hating us—which I might be able to live with, but you might not. Neither one of them deserve that, Mr. Fraser, and I’m not worth that kind of trouble for you or Claire.”

Mr. Fraser gifted her a displeased, throaty noise phlem-ing from the back of his throat. “I ken ye were a wicked besom the moment I saw ye.” He blew out a resigned breath. “Go then, damn you. But I ask then ye be gentle wi’ the lads when it’s yer time to leave them. Willie will struggle, and John…Weel, ye’ve left yer mark on him whether he kens it or not.”

“Mark on him…?”

“And he to ye, whether ye ken it or not.”

Claire handed Hermione several loose pages of parchment, heavily inked in the older woman's cursive. "Take this. It's a list of herbs and recipes that can help with common illnesses as well as fever, inflammation, rash, scrapes, and bruises."

"Thank you."

Claire embraced Hermione in a tightly. “I do wish you would stay. Are you sure I can't persuade you?"

“You and Mr. Fraser have too much noisy sex, so you absolutely won't, Claire.”

The older woman sputtered into her neck, her cheeks pinking. “Please write to me then. I want to hear from you. Do be careful what you put down. Letters are often read by nosy messengers and spies.”

“But I want to tell you about all the fabulous movies you missed out on by coming back here.”

“Maybe Jamie and I will be able to come visit you and John.”

“There’s Star Wars, The Godfather, Indiana Jones, Titanic—”

“I’ve seen Titanic—”

“Not that one. Hardly anyone knows or cares about that one. The one I’m talking about came out in 1997. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Monty Python and the Holy Grail—”

“Monty what?”

“—Iron Man, Back to the Future.” Hermione snickered. “I’m sure you would’ve looooved Brokeback Mountain, and I’m sure the messengers and spies will enjoy it, too”

“Just write to me about the Disney films, but don’t use the word film, obviously. Or telly.”

“What about VCR and DVD and DVR?”

“Why are you speaking letters to me?”

“Oh, and computers. I have one back home that fits perfectly in the palm of my hand.”

“Get out of here, you,” said Claire, caressing the younger girl’s cheeks with her blasted cold hands and then kissing her forehead, “before I accuse you of being a witch.”

“And what if I was? What if you were? What if we both are?”

“Then you most definitely should leave before the good folks here think we’ve started a coven in these backwoods.”

“Sounds exciting. We’ll fly on our brooms and dance naked around a fire underneath the pale, moon light. Hey, when we’re put on trial—and let’s hope to God that never happens—just to give you a heads up, I don’t have the Devil’s mark. I can’t save you like that other woman did.”

“That’s all right, dear.”

“I do have a black dragon tattoo on my lower back which should work just fine. It’s called a tramp stamp in my time, but my husband called it—umph!”

Claire enveloped her into another protective hug. “Don’t ever show anybody here that. Do you hear me, young lady? I mean it.”

“Okay." There was no dragon tattoo to speak of on her person, but the possibility certainly upset Claire enough to make the lie worth it.

“If you feel like you absolutely must lay with someone, keep your shift on—”

“Um—”

“Do not use a douche. They are filthy. A clean sponge and vinegar should suit.”

“I’m not putting vinegar anywhere near my—”

“But I’d prefer you abstain completely—”

“What are you, my mother sending me off to uni?"

“For the love of God, don’t get pregnant or fat.”

Hermione turned her head, resting her cheek completely on Claire’s shoulder. “Claire?”

“Hm?”

“Are you confusing me for someone else? Or wishing I were that someone else?”

Claire huffed. “Maybe a little, but I am serious. Please be careful.”

“Don’t worry. With any luck, the next time you see me, I’ll be readying myself for passage to Scotland.”

Chapter Text

October 1768

Cross Creek, North Carolina

Ports were shutting down for the season, and desperation began to set in. Covertly counting the coins in her purse, she assessed she may have enough for passage to Southampton, England.

Upon arriving to Cross Creek with Lord John and Willie, she soon heard there was a ship’s captain in town on his way to Wilmington where his boat resided in the port there. She didn’t fancy the idea of traveling with the unknown captain back to Wilmington, but her options were limited, and her patience had waned thin. She wanted to go home. She needed to go home. Since leaving Fraser Ridge, the worries of Jamie and Claire’s stuck with her. Bothered her. They were right. The longer she stayed with Willie, the more difficult it would be to leave him.

Glancing at the boy all bundled up in her bed, his belly full of the tavern’s roast and foamy ale, she slung her bag over her shoulder. Tiptoeing over to the pitcher and ewer on the stand, she dipped her finger in the water. Turning around, she stooped over and lightly drew a rune on Willie’s forehead for protection. The sign’s magic simple and effective. If anyone with ill-intent tried to touch him whilst she was away, the need to explosively shit would overcome them. Whispering an incantation, she watched the water mark glow and disappear.

Quietly, Hermione opened the door, stifling a gasp at seeing John right outside her door slumped in a chair, asleep.

What was he doing outside her door?

Frowning at him, she silently closed the door and snuck down the hallway. Downstairs, many hungered and drunken patrons still overstaying their welcome, no matter the late hour. Hastily darting to the door, she missed the two sloshed, unwashed men stumbling up the steps to which she recently vacated, making lewd and illicit remarks concerning a beautiful woman wearing men’s clothing who was staying on the second floor in the second to last room.

The night air was cold, the town winding down to a sleepy volume. Hermione determinedly marched around the corner. The tavern she heard the captain was staying in was the one at the end of the street, and when she entered, she ducked her head as to not draw immediate attention to herself. John was not with her and could not vouch for her female presence.

Stepping into the tavern, the familiar scent of greasy men, alcohol, and questionable meat greeted her.

“Have you a man with you?” asked a surly looking fellow behind the counter.

Hermione stuck out her chin and headed towards him, stumbling forward and bum smarting when a thick, meaty hand collided with the seat of her pants.

“Jesus,” she hissed, glaring at the man who swatted her. He grinned at her, proudly displaying all seven of his teeth. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Lord have mercy, Miss, I ain’t ever seen or fel’ an arse as tightly roun’ as yours. Hell, I betchya I coul’ bounce a poun’ sterlin’ off that blessed rump.”

“How dare you, you perverse, filthy pig!”

“If you dinna wan’ it, lassie, you shouldna be teasin’ the good menfolk and meself by wearin’ breeks.”

Hermione clenched her fists, resisting the urge to knock out the rest of his teeth or hexing him something fierce and ugly. Instead, she hit him with her most powerful glare, one that she specially reserved for work and naughty children. Because if she did anything more, the owner of the tavern would leap over his counter and if he didn’t throw her out right away, he’d back hand her and then drag her by the hair out of his establishment.

The man stopped laughing when he noticed her unsettling glower. “Don’ be like tha’, Miss. I like ye, is all. Ye're a fine a lady. Ain’t seen anythin’ prettier than ye, I don’ think.”

Saying nothing more to him, she got to the counter and set down a few shillings on the polished wood. “I hear there is a ship’s captain on his way to Wilmington who is staying here for the night. I would be ever so grateful if you could point me in the right direction of where he might be.”

The man picked up a shilling, eyeing it in consideration. “Have you a man with you?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Could you just tell me if there is a captain here going to Wilmington?” she snapped impatiently.

The barkeep, a stocky fellow, set down the coin and pushed all of them back towards her. “I’ll tell you what you need to know...for a price.”

“Thus, the coins.” She pushed the money towards him again, this time angrily. “I have nothing else to offer.”

“I don’t know about that.” He lunged across the counter and grabbed the top of her braid, parting his lips and poking out his tongue.

“Let go of me,” she growled, readying to curl leftward and slam the exterior of his arm on the slab of wood that would ultimately break his elbow.

Before she could do just that, a tall and broad-shouldered man appeared beside her and grasped the barkeep by the wrist, forcing him to release her.

“Collin, you damned fool. Did no one teach you how treat a lass.” Her rescuer—decidedly Irish from his accent—squeezed Collin’s wrist and then used it to shove him. He then picked up the shillings, handed it to her, and then placed down a few of his own. “Warm chocolate for the lady, and I’ll take another rum.”

Collin, rubbing his strained wrist, nodded. “Sorry, Bonnet, but you know how it is.” He dipped his chin at her chastened. “Forgive me, Miss. I haven’t seen a lady as pretty as you in a long time and damned forgot my manners. This is Stephen Bonnet, Miss, the man you’re looking for, I bet.”

Hermione stared up at Bonnet, assessing him, and finding her gratitude lessening for his intervention. Her gut clenched in warning, and alarm bells rang off in her head. Stephen Bonnet was a handsome man, with dark blond hair and sea-green eyes. He had a thin, ropey scar from the corner of his eye, down to the middle of his tanned cheek.  

His smile…

Hermione did not like his smile.

“So you’re looking to sail from Wilmington?” asked Bonnet, leaning against the counter, his eyes dropping to the toes of her boots and slowly raking their way up to her face. “You’re a tiny thing, aren’t you? I imagine there will be enough room for you on board.”

Collin returned with the rum and warm chocolate. Bonnet grabbed both and beckoned her to follow with a nudge of his head. “Come sit with me, darlin’.”

Those alarm bells never faded, but Hermione really, really needed to get to England before the ports closed. Reluctantly, she followed him to a table. Bonnet sat down at the head of it and and then shooed away the man sitting next to him who moved down to make room for her.

“You ever had chocolate?” he asked, scooching the steaming, tin mug towards her.

“I have.” She brought the cup close to her face and sniffed the rich, fragrant fumes. There was something else in it beside just chocolate and cream. Sampling a small sip, flavors of dark chocolate dark and cherry bounce marinated her tongue. The typical strong, burning sensations each ingredient provided was cut by the additional sweetened cream.

It was like a cherry cordial had an explosive orgasm in her mouth.

“You like it?”

“It’s delicious, thank you.” She eagerly swallowed another gulp, gazing wide-eyed at the allotment scattered in front of him.

Gems. Dozens of them.

“See something you like, sweetheart?”

Hermione lowered her mug and cleared her throat. “That’s quite the load of treasure you got there.”

He boldly took her left hand in his, bringing the fingers closer to his eyes and kissing her knuckles. “Looks like you fancy jewels yourself. That’s a beautiful ring you have. Your husband gave it to you, I'm thinking.”

“Yes.”

“Wealthy, was he?”

“No. It looks nice, but nothing of the piece is real,” she lied, yanking back her hand to gesture to the gems…and a few jewelry pieces. A couple of them rings. “You like rings yourself. Are either of them destined for a special woman’s finger?”

“Well, let’s see.” Bonnet picked up the gold one, took her right hand, and slipped it on her ring finger. He clicked his tongue ruefully. “You have the fingers of a child, lass.”

The gold band was loose on her ring finger. Hermione removed it, brow furrowing when seeing the engraving inside of it.

From F. to C. with love. Always.

River pirates, Hermione mused, recalling what Claire and Jamie had told her and John. The Frasers had been preyed upon by river pirates. Their valuables stolen, gems and jewels and the like. Among them, Claire’s gold wedding ring from her first husband.

From Frank to Claire.

Hermione wanted to ask where Bonnet got the ring from, but the answer was obvious. He was the river pirate. He was the one who took advantage of the Frasers’ kindness and paid them back by thieving from them and killing their friends.

“I rather like this ring,” she said, smiling, reaching for her coin purse. “How much for it?”

“It’s a ring of solid gold, and you’ll be needing to pay for your passage.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I want this ring instead.”

Bonnet leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. He eyed her comically and not out of malice but of interest. He reached underneath the table, boldly grabbing the meat of her upper thigh. “Let us finish our drinks, and we can discuss an arrangement afterwards in the privacy of my room upstairs. I see no reason why you can’t have the ring and passage aboard my ship.”

“A generous possibility, but am I correct in assuming that any type of arrangement or business transaction will not come to fruition if I do not accompany you to your room at a very late hour without a chaperon?”

Bonnet smirked smarmily, and she saw the predator hiding behind the thinly veiled disguise of insipid chivalry. “I could have you now, lass. I could tear the trousers from you and bend you over this very table. Not one person in this place would stop me. I might give you the ring afterwards or let you keep your pennies depending on how tight I think your wee cunny is. You come with me upstairs…” He went from her thigh to cup the space between her legs, and she bodily flinched, willing herself not to react the way her Hit Witch training instilled in her. “I promise not to leave you wantin’ if you don’t leave me the same.”

Hermione forced his hand from her crotch and placed it back on her thigh. “That sounds fair, Mr. Bonnet.”

His rum saluted her. “I’m a fair man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

The door of his room closed behind them, and Hermione faced the bed. Waiting for Bonnet to approach. He clasped her arms and whirled her around, making short work of her frock’s buttons. Her own hands pressed against his thick, worn woolen blouse. Hard muscle greeted her investigative touch, her mind instructing her magic to map out all the nooks and crannies of his anatomy. His ribs and sternum. The heart beneath, and the veins and arteries and capillaries feeding it. The rushing channels unknowingly sustaining a monster’s life.

Her right hand climbed, finger by finger, to his clavicle and then the roughly shaved expanse of his neck. His carotid artery throbbed beneath her touch. Bonnet all but ripped off her frock and threw it on the floor. Yanking her towards him, he lowered his forehead to hers. His breath nor his person smelled all that pleasant.

When attempting to kiss her, she whispered, “Do you want to know a secret?”

He thickly chuckled, his tongue running along his lower lip. “Maybe I do?”

“I’m a witch.”

“Are you now?” he inquired, seemingly tickled.

“Mmhm.”

He untucked her blouse from her breeks. “You best keep such claims to yourself, lass. These parts are full of superstitious folk. You’ll be hung going around saying such things.”

“I could be worse.” She stopped his groping hand before he could reach beneath her trousers. “I could be a heartless thief. A rapist. A murderer. An overall despicable human being. I could be an ill-fated pirate like you, Stephen Bonnet.”

"Ill-fated, you say? You think you can cause me harm, lass? You? I’ve carried cargo on my shoulders heavier than you.”

Hermione smiled ruefully. “And I’ve killed men much larger than you and much more frightening.”

He raised his hand as did hers, finger tip poking his carotid artery. He fell heavily to the floor and did not get back up.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell of an acidic sort of excrement, Hermione peered down the hallway of the second floor of the tavern, her leaping to her throat. John was no longer asleep on a chair next to her room, and her door was open. Jogging to her threshold, she entered the room to find two very dead, odorous men on the floor. John, Willie, and an unknown man stood next to the open window as to aerate the situation.

“My God, what happened?” Hermione brought a cloth to her face, staring horrified at the deceased individuals covered in their own blood and feces.

John jerked his head in her direction and seized her by the elbow. She saw there a bruise forming on his jaw. “Damn it all to hell, where have you been? Where did you go?”

“I imagine whatever comes out of my mouth won’t be a sufficient enough of an excuse for my absence,” she replied, stricken. She glanced at Willie who had donned a pair of trousers and his boots for the occasion. He seemed all right. Not shaken at all but more than a little angry. In fact, he leapt from his kneeling position on the bed and ran to her, embracing her firmly.

He was not angry with her.

“What happened?” she murmured into his thick curls. “Are you all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” he clarified, albeit pompously. “I’m glad you weren’t here, though. These two bastards were—”

“Language, William,” John chided. “Wherever you were, Hermione, I am glad of it.”

“You’re not upset?” Hermione asked, rubbing Willie’s back.

He sighed, in a pained sort of way. Grimacing, he moved his left arm a little. “We’ll talk later.”

There seemed to a wadded up bit of something inside the sleave of his frock. “Is something the matter?”

“He got clipped in the arm,” said the unknown man who touched his tricorn hat at her. “Pleasure to make yer acquaintance. Sheriff Mcintosh at yer service. Once my men arrive, we’ll retrieve the bodies and get out of yer hair.”

“Clipped.” Hermione frowned at John, her brows arching. “What you mean is shot?”

“It’s just a scratch and nothing more,” he replied stiffly, his pallor whitening in the candlelight.

The owner of the tavern, Mrs. Milne who must’ve been loitering in the hallway, popped her head into the room. A lovely and very pregnant young widow who had taken up the business when her late husband died eight months ago. She had wavy black hair, a dusky rose complexion, and light hazel eyes. Those pretty eyes were pinned hungrily on John. “Shall I call upon a physician for you, sir?”

“No,” both she and John said in unison.

Hermione cleared her throat and added, “No, thank you, Mrs. Milne. I’ll take care of him.”

The girl visibly deflated yet yearnfully kept staring at John. “Can I get anything for you at all?”

“If a few clean towels, a few cups of tea, and a couple of slices of bread could be delivered to his room, we would most appreciate it, ma’am,” Hermione said, finger combing the knots from Willie's hair. She turned her attention back to Sheriff Mcintosh. “Is Lord John needed for much else, sir?”

“I’ll handle the rest, ma'am.” He dipped his chin at Willie, John, and then touched his hat to Hermione. “Ye three have a blessed evening and safe travels to yer destination.”

“Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” said John.

The three of them went next door to John’s room where he directly claimed after closing and locking the door, “I’m perfect well.”

“You’re bleeding through your frock. Thankfully, I don’t think an artery was hit, so you're not in any immediate danger,” she stated dully, coaxing a stubborn Willie to the bed. “Take off your boots and trousers. Get into bed.”

“Are you mad? I can’t sleep now.” He cackled gleefully. “What if another pair of drunken poopers come in looking for you, and I sleep through it.”

“Willie?” warned John, sitting down by the smoldering hearth.

Pausing for a quick moment, she tossed John a look and pulled back the sheets and blanket, noting how untouched the bed was and knowing John hadn’t spent a single wink in it. The hour had to be approaching two in the morning.

“Looking for me?”

“Papa killed them quick, though,” Willie proudly informed and puffed his chest. “Even if he hadn’t, I most assuredly could’ve disposed of them myself. For one, they couldn’t stop shitting themselves and two, Papa taught me how to use a knife. Mr. Fraser even taught me a few moves on our outing. Had you been there in the room, Madam, I would have protected you with all I had, including my life.”

Removing her coin purse and setting it amongst her things—the sack feeling far too heavy at the moment—Hermione reached into their party's bag of goods. “Your life, Ninth Earl of Ellesmere, is worth far more than my own, It would be me that would not allow them near you. Now if you don’t go to bed, that means you're alert enough to recite your Greek monologue I assigned you while I stitch up her father.”

“I’m the man, and it is most dutiful of a gentleman to fight for a lady’s honor,” he said, scowling.

Hermione wanted to tell Willie Ransom he most certainly was not a man, but she’d have better luck and support arguing with a brick wall. John wouldn’t even back her up. This was the 18^th century, and society had their own ideas on when boys became men.

“Mr. Fraser even said I would have to look out for you,” Willie supplied, begrudgingly shirking his boots.

“Did he?” asked John, wincing as he attempted unbutton his frock with one hand.

The boy bobbed his head. “He said and I quote, ‘Your governess has a face that will attract trouble.’ I’m not really sure what he meant by that, but he indicated you need protection from bad sorts, Madam, when Papa is busy or can’t.”

Hermione retrieved her humble sewing kit from the bag and went over to John. “Let me help you with that,” she said, clutching the kit under her arm to undo his buttons. “I hope you told him I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Willie.”

“I told him you would say that,” the boy replied, hopping onto the bed, “and he laughed.”

“Naturally,” said John, innocently smiling at Hermione.

Hermione glared at him and then cast a glance at her student. “If you’re not going to bed and refuse to recite your Greek for me and your father, then I think you should start writing a thank you letter to the Frasers for their hospitality.”

“What an excellent idea,” John said. “I know I shall be writing to them once we arrive at the estate.”

He hissed when twisting out of the covering, and Hermione looked at the blood-soaked cloth wrapped around the sleeve covering his left bicep.

“It’s really not so bad,” he said, wincing. “The bullet merely grazed me.”

“Even so. You’ll likely need stitches. Lucky for you, my sewing skills are a little more promising than my knitting skills. Let’s get your shirt off you.” She helped him it out of the slightly damp top. Taking a vague note of the thin scars on his chest, but overall, he sported a rather smooth and lean expanse. Not too dissimilar to Draco.

Her eyes focused on his wound, yet he appeared to blush under her stare anyway.

“You’ve nothing I haven’t seen before,” she whispered assuredly.

Willie snorted. “That’s nothing but a little scratch, Papa.”

“That scratch is three inches long and one inch wide. Sit down, John.” She gestured to the chair closest to the hearth and then went her satchel. Claire had gifted her a small bottle of raw whiskey for occasions such as this.

Hands sufficiently washed with water and lye soap, she prepped.

Using the single clean cloth from the basin and ewer, the alcohol, a second chair, and sewing kit; Hermione set to work. Uncorking the bottle, John gamely said, “Is that to drink?”

She poured a little on the wound and watched keenly as John breathed low and sharp out his nose, his head turning away and glassy eyes blinking. “It’s all right if you want to cry,” she whispered, dabbing at the wound. “I won’t judge you much for it.”

“I have had much worse.”

Retrieving a needle from her sewing kit, she purposefully bent and then threaded it. Examining the split flesh, she touched two fingers from her left hand on each side of the oozing gap. “This will hurt,” she told him frankly.

“I’m aware.”

“Do not move.” The moment her needle pierced his skin, she sent a weak numbing spell throughout the area, her breath catching when the magic shot out blue.

“Something the matter,” asked John.

She shook her head, clearing her throat. “Nothing.”

Pushing the blueness of the spell from her mind, she made painstaking work of her stiches, all the while contemplating how she hoped he didn’t scar too badly. If she hadn’t normality to uphold, she could have healed him with her magic. Gaping, bloody flesh wounds were part of life as a Hit Witch. An eighteen-month course back in 2005 and yearly certification renewals required Hermione to be in the know of various healing charms, spells, and to some extent, Muggle first-aid.

Approaching the last few stiches—all together, there would be twelve—Hermione broke the silence, “I am sorry, John, for not being there.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I am relieved you weren’t. Out of curiosity, may I ask where you were?”

Hermione darted her eyes to Willie who no longer found his father’s wound-stitching all the appealing and was quite intently quilling up a letter at the nightstand. “I went to the creek to bathe.”

“At this hour? Alone?”

Her brow arched. “Did you want to come?”

“Hermione, that is incredibly unsafe—”

“I’m aware which is why I wasn’t gone very long.”

“Did someone—” He reached for her face and then stopped. “Your hair is a bit mussed, and your frock is frayed. There are buttons missing.”

“I’m perfect well,” she stated dishonestly. Guilt ate at her heart and stomach. For one, she snuck out like a thief in the night knowing there was a possibility of not returning and had left no note behind. Two, Willie was attacked in her absence, the reason being her. The men had forced their way into the room searching for her, and Hermione had no idea why. Thirdly, on her outing, she had been forced to make a judgement call, and those never sat tidily on her conscious. How many times when on assignment had she been given one target yet was forced to report the neutralizing of another?

No matter the lengthy list sporting Bonnet’s horrid deeds, taking his life and anyone else’s was not an enjoyment. Nor had she done it out of revenge on behalf of the Frasers. If she had wanted to steal back the ring and gemstones, she certainly could have without killing him. Like any target’s history she’d been provided, she had to think in terms of the future. Bonnet would not stop stealing, murdering, or raping. He was young, strong, and healthy. So long as he succeeded in evading the law, his lack of right and wrong would fuel his loathsome career. Making the choice to put him down like a rabid dog, Hermione had to believe she was saving many more than she was hurting.

Bonnet was her second kill since arriving to 1768, and her first conscious one. Maybe killing those two men changed history and had set off a chain of events that wasn't supposed to happen. Hermione had been warned against such acts by the chief priestess in magical Hispaniola, and she had even momentarily considered not killing Bonnet because of it. There were men—a crew—who depended on him for work. A ship waiting in the harbor of Wilmington awaited its mastering and direction. There were people in poor circumstances, their colonial dream of freedom and promise depleted by incomprehensibly heavy taxes. They needed passage in returning to the British Isles where life for working-class commoners was hardly better.

“Something is heavying your mind,” John commented.

Her eyes lifted to his face and then back to doing up his last stitch. Had he been staring at her the whole time? “You’re looking too hard, my lord,” she said, looping the thread to knot off the end.

“Though you are exceptionally talented at schooling your expressions, those eyes of yours give you away. You are housing regret in leaving young Willie and…perhaps some other things. You have been acting oddly since we departed from the Frasers as though you wish you hadn’t left—”

She cut him off with a frustrated sigh, pouring a trickle of raw whiskey on the stitching. “It’s not that I wished to stay. Claire and I…we had much in common, and I felt at ease talking to her—”

“You can talk to me,” he interjected, his tone a tad forceful.

Hermione studied the faded spots of rash on his face left from his bout of the measles. The splotches were nothing more than faintly pink patches and hardly visible, yet the fire in the hearth brought them out to remind her he had been sick as well as the conversation they had about her bonding with Claire. Looking back, he seemed hurt and confused, and why wouldn’t he be? In Hispaniola, he hired her out of both pity on her part and desperation on his. He knew nothing about her but the plain and simple lies she told him and then suddenly she’s clinging to Claire and bickering with her like they are sisters or mother and daughter. He would be correct in his assumption she’s told Claire secrets and truths he’ll never hear.

“I don't know, John,” she said, cowering under his blue-eyes.

“Are we not friends, Hermione? If not, then can't we be?”

“Of course…” She made a frustrated, throaty sound. “Of course, we are."

The confession wounded her because it meant she saw him more than an employer. It meant she cared about him, and that frightened her. Letting herself love Willie and then having to abandon him with everything that was going to happen, would leave a festering hole in her heart. Caring about John’s wellbeing on top of that... The American Revolutionary war was staring all of them in the face, and Willie would be of age to fight and maybe even expected to join. John was an experienced military man and had an era-inappropriate habit of fucking men. He’d done well in hiding his secret so far, but matters were soon to change. Espionage would unearth all sorts of classified information and closeted skeletons, and the ones like John would be lucky to survive it.

“I appeared to have upset you. I'm gravely sorry to have done such a thing.”

She brushed a tear from her eye. “It’s not your fault. What I wish is not to have stayed with Claire but that I could tell you and Willie things.”

“You can,” he said firmly. “At least to me. If the secrets are too sordid than perhaps not Willie.”

“They most certainly are.”

“I would like to earn your trust enough to know your fears of holding back.” John straightened in his chair and looked over his shoulder at Willie who had lost the battle and fell asleep at the desk. His face was smashed against the letter meant for the Frasers. “Perhaps I will initiate.”

“That’s not necessary—”

From there, John explained in great detail how he met James and Claire Fraser.

When John finished in reliving a very embarrassing and uncomfortable memory, Hermione became distinctly aware he was half-dressed. He had exposed to her a shameful part of his history and did so without a shirt.

“My God, John,” she muttered, rubbing a hand down her face in case the muscles in it decided to twitch, either out of laughter or pity.

“You can laugh. I was a fool. It led to my men losing the battle.”

She shook her head. “That wasn’t at all what I was thinking. Well, maybe a little for trying to fight a grown—overgrown—man, but that can be forgiven. You were a teenager, after all. Teenage boys in particular do think highly of themselves. No, what I’m thinking is how bloody…” Sweet, precious, adorable. “Gentlemanly you’ve always been. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as gracious or honorable as you, John Grey.”

“Striving for such behaviors has not always served me well,” he added, his tone having an echo of bitterness.

Hermione grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Doing the right thing is never easy. All choices, even the seemingly good ones, have consequences. I’m impressed you didn’t let what happen change you for the worse.”

"But I was vengeful when I saw Jamie again when governing Ardsmuir,”

Her chest constricted at his words, but she forced herself to relax. John had not hurt Jamie there in that way. Whatever did happen there and afterwards led to the deepest kind of friendship and respect. 

“However you may have acted at the time does not matter now,” she said, exhaling for what must come next. “I suppose it’s my turn.”

“Something small is all I ask.” His thumb skimmed her knuckles.

There were a thousand things she could tell him. Some of them embarrassing like his and others much more serious, but he deserved something tangible. John’s introduction to the Frasers was something real because she had met them. He needed something real from her, but she couldn't give him magic.

Their hands still clasped, swallowing thickly, she turned her arm so that it faced upward and rolled back the hem of her sleeve. Her scar had been successfully hidden from view thanks to modest dress, gloves, and basic wrappings.

“I didn’t show Claire this. For obvious reasons, I don’t go around flaunting it. The context is too hard to explain—”

John rucked up her sleeve further to fully reveal the angry, red lettering spelling out MUDBLOOD. “What in God's name? Who did this to you?”

“A mad woman. I was eighteen—”

“It looks like it was done to you not a month ago, Hermione. You’ve truly been hiding these markings all this time?”

“It is rather hideous, isn’t it?”

He peeled his eyes from her forearm to search her face for elaboration. “You say a woman did this to you. What possessed her to do such a thing and why? What does it mean?”

“Like I said, the context—”

“Damn the context. You will tell me, and you will tell me now,” he demanded icily. “And then you will tell me what became of this woman who did this to you.”

“Relax. Take a deep breath. I’m all right—”

“I’m not!”

“Shhh.” She touched a finger to her lips and pointed to Willie.

John glared at the dying fire, the embers growing dimmer by the minute. “I have met women in my lifetime with questionable moral compasses. Some might’ve even been seen as witches. I do not care to entertain my thoughts on such superstitions—”

“Naturally.”

“—There is usually a formidable and sound reason for things, but I have to know…” He hovered his fingers over the marred flesh. “Did she believe herself to be one? I have heard stories of such godless women maiming their victims in ritual.”  

“Yes,” she said slowly, seeing an opportunity to explain. “She believed herself to be a witch and even believed I was one, too, but undeserving of my magic because of my family’s ancestry. Her ethos and her ancestry stemmed from old, dark paganism. Mine did not—”

“What on earth made her believe you had magic?”

Hermione laughed, tempted to show him a little trick. Something light and fun like a floating quill. “I don’t know. Perhaps she caught me dancing naked in the moonlight.”

“That wouldn’t suggest you having magic,” he said, coughing uncomfortably, “but that you merely have unorthodox, nighttime activities unique to the lunar cycle.”

“What do you want me to say? That I have magic, and I’m a witch? Her belief wasn’t unfounded? She wasn’t a stable woman. Whatever her reason for disfiguring me will not soothe you.”

John huffed, his grip bruising her hand. “Was she hung or burned?”

“She tried to harm another girl who was close to my age. That girl's mother killed her.”

“An action I imagine your own mother would’ve wanted to participate in.”

“My mother doesn’t know about this, John, nor does my father.”

John made displeased sort of noise. “Christ. How could your own mother not know?”

Tears burned her eyes. “I hid this from them because I didn’t want them to think they failed in protecting me. I was such a headstrong child. I did well in my schooling and seemingly followed the rules, but I…broke them all the time and consistently put myself in danger because I thought I was doing the right thing. There was nothing they could’ve done to stop me. When I set my mind to something, it was best everyone—my parents included—get out of my way. Even younger than eighteen, I believed myself mature enough to do what I wanted.”

“That sounds like someone I know.”

She laughed wetly, “I think you and I would’ve gotten along well had we been around each other at that age.”

They sat in silence for some time, John’s hold on her hand loosening. The bones in her hand ached.

“I assume your late husband was privy to your scar,” he said, breaking the tired but comfortable air between them.

“Quite so.”

“Did it bother him?”

Memories of Draco in the cave pleading with her to hold still, so he could kill her which would ultimately save her from the torturing, war, and prejudice.

“He hid his discomfort from me for a long time.”

“You have to understand, sweetheart, I’m trying to save you. Doing this will fix everything. You’ll not know hurt. Your body and heart will be unblemished. Blood prejudice will not be as strong, and we will find and love each other that much sooner. Our memories of school will be of our growing love of each other and not our hate. There will be no endangering you and no jealous squabbles between you and Weasley. It will be us from the start. Can’t you see that?”

Caught up in the delusional monologue Draco had smacked her with months ago, Hermione failed to notice John’s face coming close to hers. Which was just as well, for a sound of crashing and a moan of pain made her flinch and stare at the door behind her.

“That sounds like Mrs. Milne,” she said, rushing to the door and flinging it open to find the young woman leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway with her hand to her stomach. A wooden tray, spilled tea, and a soaked wet bread loaf lay dejected and scattered at her feet. “Oh, dear.”

John came up behind Hermione, putting on a clean shirt. “Is she well?”

Hermione studied the spilled tea closer to the threshold and the puddle of fluid at the woman’s feet. “I think we ought to fetch a midwife for you.”

The woman shook her head. “Mrs. Cloverfield fled when the measles took her husband, and the measles took Mrs. Abbott and Mrs. Willard. I was going to send word to that conjure woman who lives in the woods everyone is talking about. I thought I had time.”

“Is there a suitable physician here in Cross Creek?”

A contraction must’ve hit her, for Mrs. Milne bowed low and let out a groaning howl. “He’s downstairs neck deep in drink.”

“I’ll go see to him,” said John and bolted down the hall.

Hermione frowned at him. Coward. Painting on what she thought was a pleasant face, she stepped over the mess on the floor and offered her arm. “Where’s your room? Let’s get you comfortable.”

Mrs. Milne motioned to the door right beside her. Ah. Yes, of course, she’d offer the most handsome and gentlemanly customer the room directly across from her own

How could it be that Hermione Jean Granger was the only one in the immediate vicinity qualified enough to deliver Mrs. Milne’s baby?

Twice before, Hermione had helped deliver a child, and the circumstances were purely unplanned. The first time happened when Pansy Parkinson-Weasley went into labor one month before her due date during a girls’ trip to Paris, and little Rosie Jean was in such a rush to meet her mum, godmother, and Auntie Ginny; she wasted no time in slithering out of the womb and plopping pinkly onto a nest of luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets.

The second time had been when she was arresting a suspect who was wanted for questioning. He had been linked to a terrorist group who sold very cursed and very fake historical artifacts to Anglophilic Muggles. The suspect, a horrible man, had a fifteen-year-old girl locked up and hidden away in a suitcase, the interior enlarged by an undetectable extension charm. By the time Hermione got to her, the poor girl’s baby was crowning.

Speaking of crowning…

The curtains of Mrs. Annie Milne’s room were drawn back, and Hermione could see the sky lightening to a promising light purple. The physician was still downstairs passed out, and the sound of John pacing the hallway outside the door could be heard by both women.

“I can’t do it anymore,” wept Annie, her face red and splotchy. Her shift was soaked from sweat. “I’m going to die, aren’t I? We’re both going to die, my baby and I?”

“Annie, listen to me,” Hermione said calmly from between the girl’s spread legs. “You are doing so well. I can see your baby’s head. On your next contraction, I need you to do me a favor and push as gently as possible. I know you want to push hard, but you mustn’t yet.”

Unable to help herself, Hermione crossed herself and recited aloud the prayer of Orthodox.

“O heavenly King, O Comforter, the Spirit of truth, who art in all places and fills all things; Treasury of good things and Giver of life: Come and dwell in us and cleanse us from every stain, and save our souls, O gracious Lord. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal: have mercy on us.”

And then to herself, she pled, Goddesses of fertility, birthing and babies, do not let this girl tear. Do not let her bleed out. Let there be no complications. I need a textbook birth here, or we are all screwed.

Another contraction had Annie curling forward, screeching.

“Gently, gently,” Hermione chided kindly, reaching forward to wipe her brow with a cool, damp cloth. “Very good, Annie. The baby’s head is halfway.”

“Fuck off!”

“I will, just as soon as we’re done here.”

Two more gentle pushes accompanied by an impressive string of profane comments, which Hermione forgave, for pushing an infant’s head and shoulders out through a narrow passage was no G-Rated matter.

A strange, quaking but warm feeling enveloped Hermione when she cupped the baby’s head. Hair whirled and matted. Skin scrunched and gooey from vernix, the sight of the half-born child brought tears to her eyes. Composing herself, she straightened her shoulders and smiled brightly at the mother-to-be. “You’ve got one more push, Annie, and you’re going to push as hard you as you can on your next contraction. Tell me when you feel it coming.”

Annie nodded weakly, attempting to catch her breath. Several seconds later, she scooched up her bum and spread her legs even wider than before. “It’s coming!” she wailed. “Oh, God, I think I’m going to shite!”

“Don’t worry about that, just push! Bear down! That’s it! Baby’s arms! That’s it! Baby’s legs!”

With a gushing of fluid and admittedly a little poo, a wriggling and wrinkled teeny person arrived to meet the world. Hermione looked out the window, grinning when seeing the sun rising. Wiping the baby off with a clean and damply warm towel, she examined the penis—largish than normal, maybe—the faint, grayish purple skin, the width of the nose, the full lips, and then finally the spot at the base of his spine.

Hermione cleared her throat and said lightly, “You have a beautiful son, Annie. Would you like to lower your shift and have skin-to-skin contact before the umbilical cord is cut?”

"Skin-to skin?"

"Yes."

“Is he…” Tears pour down her cheeks, and she released a sob. “Is he black?”

Hermione placed the whimpering baby in a clean towel and with much trepidation, stepped off the bed to show Annie all her hard work. “He will be, but he is beautiful, and he is yours.”

Annie stared at the chubby, waving arms of her son and then at his face, lips parting in wonder as his own puckered needily.

“Give him here.” She lowered the top portion of her shift and raised her arms. Hermione placed the baby into them before stepping back a few paces to give the two privacy. Annie nestled the baby flushed against her breast, and her eyes closed. She slowly opened them and peered down, tears of love pouring down her cheeks. She caressed his hair, forehead, and cheeks. “He’s so perfect. Have you seen anything so wonderfully perfect in all your life?”

“I can’t say I have.”

The baby’s eyes reluctantly opened, and Annie gasped in delight and brought his ridiculously tiny hand to her mouth, kissing it. “Hullo, there, love. I’m your mummy, and I love you so much. You and I are going to take care of each other.”

The placenta delivered and the cord cut, Hermione’s hands shook as she gathered the soiled bedclothes while Annie expertly nursed the baby. Catching her interested stare, Annie smiled forlornly. “He’s not my first.” She then brokenly added, “Or my second. I had two weans with Ellis. Marie died of the croup, and cot death took our Junior.”

Jesus Christ, why did life have to be so hard and unfair here? “What happened to Ellis Milne if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Influenza happened about seven or so months ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I wasn’t raped,” she said briskly, clearly speaking of the man who fathered her child and not her late husband. Shame colored her cheeks. “He was a freeman from Virginia who did a lot of traveling for his employer. He came upon hard times and was without means when coming to Cross Creek and just needed enough to get himself the rest of the way home. He found work with Ellis and the smithy down the street.  And Ellis, well he barely touched me since Junior died. When he did, he’d force me to face the other way. I think he thought it was my fault. That I did something to him, but I didn’t. I swear it—”

“I believe you.”

She sniffled, cuddling her baby impossibly closer to her and kissed his forehead, murmuring into his skin, “Abe was kind to me, but…this baby will have to be a Milne. All this will be his someday.”

“What are you going to name him?”

A dreamy expression glossed over her face while her eye lifted from her baby to the door where John Grey undoubtedly still paced, waiting for news. “John.”

Hermione stifled a laugh. “If that is the case, would you care if he came in and peeked at his namesake?”

Her whimsical grin faltered. “What if he says something about the baby’s skin? O-Or that I’m an adulteress? Or both?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“But what if he does?”

“Then,” Hermione dropped the load of filthy linen on the floor. “I will have no choice but to kill him.”

Much to Hermione’s surprise, Willie was out in the hallway with John. Both snapped their attention to her when she opened the door, and John flung himself into her personal bubble. He smelt strongly of both coffee and brandy.

“How does she fare? I take it the baby is born. How is it? Will she require further assistance? I regret to inform you Dr. Billings choked on his own vomit…” John sighed, “and died approximately twenty-five minutes ago. He’s dead on my bed, unfortunately.”

Hermione covered her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked Willie, a bowl of porridge in his hands.

“Um…” Hermione had not slept a wink. She had killed a pirate and stole his stolen treasure, nearly breaking her ankle when sneaking out the window from his second story room. Two men died in their fecal matter when attempting to attack Willie. John got shot. There was dead man on his bed. She somehow delivered a baby without any problems, and the aforementioned baby was half-black. It was October 25, 1768, and about eight o’ clock in the morning.

“Do you have anything to drink?” she asked John.

He politely extended his stein of coffee to her.

“Something stronger, please”

John handed her his pewter flask from inside his pocket. She unscrewed the lid and drank the whiskey greedily, ignoring the burning of her esophagus and eyes. Once she drained it, she stifled a burp and wheezed out, “It’s a boy.”

Willie shoved the porridge bowl into his father’s hands and then sprinted down the hallway and downstairs. Quite clearly, they heard him bellow, “It’s a boy!”

An eruption of applause and hoots of joy erupted through the tavern. Despite everything, Hermione cracked a smile and even a small chuckle. She sobered fast, though, and then solemnly looked at John.

“The baby was not fathered by the late Ellis Milne,” she said. “You may or may not be able to tell at this point, but would you like to meet his supposed son anyway?”

John’s shock was only brief, for he never knew Ellis Milne and saw no use in taking his living wife’s infidelity personally. “I think I shall be delighted to make young Milne’s acquaintance.”

“She named him John because she is completely infatuated with you, so when she tells you this, do not make that face.”

“Indeed,” John squeaked out.

As Annie slept, Hermione fashioned a clout for little Johnnie's bottom. Once his cute tush was secured, she swaddled him in clean flannel and picked him up, shuffling over to John who sat on a chair adjacent to the bed. For the umpteenth time, she marveled at the boy's diminutiveness. She always forgot how small newborns really were, and how featherlike and fragile and floppy they felt in her arms.

With much reluctance, she handed the baby to John but not before burying her face into the warm fleshly folds of Johnnie’s neck where she suitably planted several smooches.

Her womb clenched in want.

None of that now, Uterus, she chastised mentally.

Gimme!

Shush, you don’t know what you want.

Yes, I do.

We’ve had this argument before, and you never win. You don’t know what you want, and you shan’t be baking a person any time soon, you bloody awful organ.

Fill me with useful sperm, and I won’t be bloody awful for a long time. I promise.

“Well, aren’t you a handsome lad,” John said softly, palming the boy’s absurdly small foot that stuck out from his blanket. Hermione was not entirely proficient in swaddling babies. A leg or an arm always seemed to stick out when she gave it a go.

A pool of heat now bloomed in her baby maker, not entirely due to her body’s want for a child, but she always found a man holding and caring for a baby quite fetching.

A man who loved children was attractive. Ron had adored them, and Draco had liked them well enough. He was godfather to a few. However, he loved her more, and she loved her career more. The decision to not have children right away and enjoy the babies their friends kept having seemed like the best plan.

We could give John’s sperm a go, Hermione.

For the love of God, no! I don’t see him that way, and he’s not a fan of pussy, all right? Jesus, I shouldn’t have drunk all that whiskey.

Using his pointer finger and thumb, John squished Johnnie’s cheeks together, bent down, and kissed his nose.

Hermione promptly marched to Annie’s table and started unattractively shoveling Willie’s cold, honeyed porridge into her gullet, envisioning that it was a bowl of the richest, chocolatiest ice cream.

I’m not convinced, said her womb.

I hate this, said her tastebuds.

Why do you do this to me? asked her stomach.

Don’t worry, said her eighth cranial nerve, I’m going to make her throw this shit up and the whiskey in one, two, th—

“Excuse me.” Hermione tossed herself over Annie’s thankfully clean chamber pot and retched.

That’s what you get for neglecting me, her vagus nerve jeered.

Chapter Text

Lynchburg, Colony of Virginia

Late October, 1768

No sooner had Hermione submerged into the steaming water inside the ceramic tub, Charlotte Bobwhite burst into the bedroom and without ceremony, dumped a basin of hot water over her head.

Which would’ve been most welcome had she been prepared for it.

“Oh, dear God!” she exclaimed, coughing and flailing awkwardly within the compact bathing vessel. Hair plastered over her face, she heard Charlotte humming something rich and gospel-like and smelled something lemony and herby. Separating the sodden-curly curtain from her eyes, she peered blurrily down in the water and saw dehydrated lemon peel, penny royal, and angelica floating about.

Charlotte clicked her tongue reprovingly, grabbing Hermione’s left arm and scrubbing the limb with a thick oval disc that smelled of honey, rosewood, and cinnamon. “Lady Dunsany will not tolerate blasphemy, ma’am, unless she’s the one saying it. You best get it all out now with me.” She turned Hermione’s arm and gasped at the scar above her wrist. “What the devil is this?”

“I can bathe myself, you know?” Hermione tried to take back her arm, but Charlotte held strong. The young girl narrowed her gaze like she was trying to assess the mark.

It dawned on Hermione that Charlotte could recognize the scar was odd, but she could not read it.

“You look like you’ve been branded, ma’am,” she said softly, her eyes wide. “I heard about white slaves, but we don’t get much of them folk here in Virginia. How’d you earn your freedom?”

“I’m not a slave. Someone just hurt me, is all. A long time ago.”

Charlotte’s pretty features contorted into a scowl, and she shuffled around the basin to make quick, thorough work of Hermione’s other arm. “Same person who got you there on your ribs, ma’am? Lord, I’ve never seen a scar like that in my life.”

She looked down at her scar mopingly and then at her hairy legs, making her think of her hairy armpits, and equally riotous bikini line. True, such grooming tactics weren’t popular for women during this era, and she had no one to look smooth and plucked for, but she did rather feel like a wild monkey. Plus, this was her first true bath in over a month, and she had Lord John’s mother-in-law to meet in a few hours. Hermione would feel extra feminine and elegant after a good, detailed shave.

Razer. She needed the sparsely used razer she nabbed back in Hispaniola.

“Where do you think you're headin' off to." Charlotte strong hands pushed down her shoulders. "You ain’t done, ma’am. I still have to work on cleaning that hair.”

“I have to get something.”

“I’ll get it for you. What is it?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I’ll not have you dripping a sodden, dirty mess around this room, ma’am.”

Hermione paused at that, further respecting Charlotte. Without outright saying it, she was forbidding Hermione making more work for her. Mopping up and scrubbing filthy water puddles would be doing just that.

“All right.” Once her hair was washed, she begrudgingly asked Charlotte to get the tiny wooden box from inside her trunk.

A minute later, Charlotte retrieved the box for her. Hermione took it and flipped the clasp open, revealing a straight razorblade. “Can I have the soap?” she asked.

Charlotte handed her the soap, eyeing the sharpened scrap of steel with mild distrust. “What are you going to do with that?”

Hermione carefully stood and rested a foot on the edge of the basin, lathering up her leg. “Shaving my legs.”

“May I ask why, ma’am?”

Gingerly with much practiced precision, she smoothed the razor from ankle to knee. She’d dedicate time to her upper thighs and bikini area in just a bit. “I have enough hair on my head. I don’t think I want much more of it elsewhere.”

The young woman watched, silent and transfixed as Hermione shaved her lower legs, underarms, and upper legs. When Hermione started soaping up the creases and apex of her thighs, she gasped in alarm. Hermione almost told the poor girl about Brazilian waxing and how she used to do them once a month but thought better of it.

Cleaned and gleaming, Charlotte threw a towel around Hermione, padding her dry. On the bed laid a shift, a set of stays, a bum roll, stockings, and a dress. The dress was certainly not one of the two Hermione forwarded with much of Lord John’s and William’s belongings while they journeyed to Fraser Ridge. It was a new dress, the skirt a shade of olive green and the bodice a floral-imprinted piece of similar color.

“Lord John sent word he was bringing a governess with him,” said Charlotte conversationally, plucking the shift off the mattress and throwing it over Hermione’s head. She then grabbed the wool stockings, gartered them around her thighs with the sewn-in ribbons at the ruffled hems. “When your trunk arrived, Lady Dunsany was beside herself at seeing only the two dresses and felt something awful about you being a widow and without much means. She arranged three new dresses for you, ma’am.”

Hermione righted the shift and braced herself for the stays. At least she didn’t have to don a corset…yet. “How very kind of her.”

“And she arranged the nice soaps and herbs for you. I think she wants a young lady to pamper.” Charlotte slid the stays over Hermione’s shift and ruthlessly tightening the strings. Falling into the cliché—as opposed to collapsing on the floor—Hermione held fast to one of the posters of the bed, wincing. “That poor woman lost all her babies—two of them daughters—and Lord Dunsany died some four years ago.”

“Oh,” Hermione whispered, believing over-tightened stays and outliving one’s children to be the very definition of hell.

“But she has the little master, and Lord, does she love that boy. He was all she talked about since gettin' here. There,” exhaled Charlotte, pleased with her cinch work. “Such a nice figure you have, ma’am.”

“Thank you?” Hermione stared down at her breasts, wondering what an actual corset would do to them. The ladies were looking full and ripe already.

“A pert bottom, too, if you don’t mind me saying. This’ll help, though.” Charlotte encircled the bum roll around Hermione’s hips.

Charlotte then shooed her over to the vanity and sat her down in front of the mirror, dark eyes zeroing in on Hermione’s curls. "It’d be a sin to put a wig or powder over that mane of yours. I’ll be right back.”

The young girl was gone nor more than two minutes before returning with a tin of pomade and a vial of citrusy oil to beat and shape and mold Hermione’s hair into submission. A few pins later and an elegant ivory hair comb for the finishing touch—also a gift from Lady Dunsany—Hermione was ready for the dress and shoes.

When she was completely dressed, Charlotte shoved her in front of the full-length mirror by the window, beaming in pride. “Even under all that dirt and grime, ma’am, when you first got here, I knew you were a stunner. Look at you now. You’ll be swimming in proposals and engaged by Christmas, I tell you. If Lord John ain’t mindful, old Master Bobwhite down the way will be snatching you up. Recently widowed, he is. Poor wife died of childbirth back in May. All right, let's get you to her ladyship.”

Hermione reluctantly followed behind her, hungrily looking back at the canopy bed that would serve her well for the next however long. She was exhausted and didn’t want to wait until the late evening to go to bed. Weeks of tavern and inn-hopping as well as living rough had worn on her. That bath relaxed her, and she would’ve happily shirked the dress and petticoats to crawl underneath the clean sheets and hide away until dinner or maybe even breakfast the next morning.

“Were you the one who readied my room?” asked Hermione to Charlotte as they walked down the hallway towards the staircase.

The girl bristled and ducked her head. “Is it all right, ma’am?”

“Yes. I want to thank you. I appreciate how clean and warm the room was when I got there. The weather has taken a turn for the chilly, and the fire was most welcome as was the readied bath and fresh towels.” Hermione touched one of her tendrils. “And my hair…you’ve done a wonder to it, Charlotte, thank you.”

“Why…” Her features froze in an unreadable expression, and her head ducked further. “Why, you’re very welcome, ma’am,” she muttered. “Your hair is beautiful.”

Hermione eyed the plain, beige cloth covering the girl’s head. “The oil you used on my hair. Is it yours?”

“My mama’s,” she said, shyly. “She doesn’t wear it often. Only sometimes in the evening for Daddy.”

“Your father is at the Bobwhite's, too?”

Charlotte bobbed her head up and down, lifting it a little in pride. “My whole family. Mama and Daddy. Junior and me—we were born at the same time, you see—and we got four younger than us. Abigail, Benjamin, Eliza, and little Georgie. Mama just had him three months ago.

As if summoning her, a woman that could only be Charlotte’s mother met them at the bottom of the stairs. Tied securely around her upper body was a cleverly designed, make-shift baby sarong. A stray, brown and chunky leg adorned with a tiny, knitted sock stuck out from the wrapping, and Hermione wanted very much to reach over and squeeze the fleshy appendage. Better yet, she yearned to hold the baby. The auntie-side of her needed its baby fix.

“Is this Little Georgie?” Hermione asked, clasping her fingers together to keep them from reaching out and experimentally tickling the baby’s foot. “And you must be Charlotte’s mum. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Hermione.”

Charlotte and her mother exchanged a look, the younger biting her bottom lip and shrugging one shoulder.

“Caroline,” said Charlotte’s mother, finally, referring to herself. “Lady Dunsany is waiting for you in the tearoom. Charlotte, go help Abigail in the kitchen. I’ll take Lady Christakos to Her Ladyship.”

“I’m not a Lady,” Hermione half-lied. Legally, as the wife to Lord Draco Malfoy, she married into the title, but the name had no weight or recognition here. “You may call me Hermione if you would like."

“No, ma’am, we will not.”

Hermione internally sighed. It had been worth a shot, and she locked her hands behind her back, critically studying the house’s décor. The style classically colonial and objectively beautiful. As lavish and pretty as it was, Hermione only saw blood, oppression, and tears. How unfair it was that Hermione—a guest and not even a member of the family—would lay warm and cozy in her new canopy bed that night while Caroline and her children would trek a quarter of a mile away from the house to their own feeble quarters. Still on the property but far enough away as to not ruin the aesthetic.

True, the Bobwhites were not slaves but extended hired-help from the neighboring plantation's. However, their lives were marginally better than the enslaved; for their pay was pitiful. Not to mention, they could still be disciplined as needed by their employer.

A thought of chaos sparked inside her brain which she quickly stamped out because, no, she could not set fire to the estate and Bobwhite's property. Nothing good would come of it. Sure, the house and plantation would be gone but the sin wouldn’t be. It would still live strong and gangrenous and wretched. Even more so given that such an act would likely force separations on the likes of Caroline and her family.

Caroline stopped outside a set of open double doors and bowed her head, silently gesturing Hermione to enter which she did. John immediately stood from his chair when seeing her. On the sofa sat an older woman adorned in mourning black, graying blonde hair pulled up into frilly black cap.

“Your Ladyship, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” Hermione lowered her eyes and grabbed the sides of her skirt, curtseying. She then directed the same sentiment towards John. “My lord. I do hope my young student is taking the afternoon to rest. He’s been ever so cranky.”

John’s blue-eyed gaze dropped the hem of her skirt and hastily traveled upwards. The boots and breeks were off and safely tucked away in her room. Hermione had hoped he would be pleased at the sight of her bathed and fastened in a nice dressed as opposed to meeting his mother-in-law dressed like a mucky groomsman. Instead, his shoulders tensed, and he looked to his mother-in-law. An exasperated shade of pink coloring his cheeks.

“Louisa, may I introduce you,” he started, his voice somewhat strained, “to Willie’s governess, Madam Hermione Christakos. Madam Christakos, Lady Dunsany of Helwater.”

Hermione dutifully curtseyed again at Louisa, completely ignorant of the woman fumbling for her specs which lay around her neck on an intricate silver chain. Once the glasses were on the bridge of her nose, her watery blue orbs widened at the younger woman, and her jaw dropped.

“My dear girl, come here and sit. Let me take a closer look at you.” She patted the empty space next to her, and Hermione hesitantly obliged. She tossed a pleading look at John who pointedly ignored her, the man marching to the window and glaring at the afternoon rain.

Carefully, Hermione sat down—not too close—to Lady Louisa Dunsany, and safely placed her lacy-gloved hands on her lap. Posture rigid, Hermione sat awkwardly at an angle, facing the other woman but daring not to look her in the eye. Instead, her focus settled on the tea tray which displayed three steaming cups of Darjeeling, small and perfectly squared ham sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, several thick slices of buttered honey-cakes, all accompanied by a jar of orange marmalade.

Would it be impolite if Hermione grabbed the tray, hid away in a dark secluded closet, and ate the entire spread herself? She was ravenous and if she had to suffer an American winter without electricity or a wand, she best put on a stone, at the very least, to keep warm. Gain the seven she’d lost since April and another seven to keep her bones sufficiently padded. 

“Well,” said Lady Dunsany, a pleasant smile on her face. She reached over to the tray and grabbed a serviette, draping the cloth over her lap before reaching for a cup of tea. “John and I have exchanged several letters since April, and he spoke fondly of you. He described in great detail the care you have bestowed upon my grandson and the joy you have brought him in the wake of his mother’s death. What he failed to illustrate is your youth and beauty, Hermione. Here I was expecting a woman a few years shy of my own age. You have to be much younger than my late Isobel, surely.”

Hermione swallowed, nervous. “I am truly sorry for your loss. You also flatter me, Your Ladyship. I am one and thirty.”

Lady Dunsany nearly choke on her tea and gawked at the younger woman whilst dabbing at her lips. “You lie,” she accused playfully. “I can’t believe it. What is your secret?”

Hermione shrugged, smiling coyly. Reaching over, she grabbed a serviette for her own lap and then a cup of tea.

“John tells me you were married for eight years before losing your husband to smallpox. Such a foul illness. I, too, am sorry for your loss. I lost my own husband four years ago, and I miss him dearly.”

“As do I,” said John, plucking third serviette and cup of tea from the tray. “He was a splendid man, indeed, and a doting grandfather to Willie.”

Nodding in agreement, Lady Dunsany returned her tea and saucer to the tray and sampled a finger sandwich. Prior to taking a delicate bite, she asked, “You and your husband did not have children of your own?”

A nosy and common inquiry. A woman’s fertility was everyone’s business in the 18^th century.

“The love and devotion my husband filled me with could not get me with child.” Hermione palmed her stomach and stared, famished, at Louisa’s sandwich. “Years ago, the healers examined him and concluded his seed—”

Lady Dunsany made a scandalized sound, and John uncomfortably coughed.

A woman’s fertility was everyone’s business, but a man’s was not.

“Forgive me,” Hermione sheepishly pled.

“It’s quite all right, dear. I have heard of such things befalling upon our good men,” Louisa said, a calculating expression in place. “And you are healthy and young enough to marry again and bear children.”

“Hmm.” Hermione hastily spread marmalade on a scone and sufficiently stuffed her mouth full as to avoid further conversation.

“I foresee you will be engaged by Christmas.”

To prevent from choking to death, she downed her tea to help dislodge the traitorous chunk of scone caught in her throat. “No, I don’t think so,” she gasped out, eyes watering.

Louisa raised her eyebrows. “You don’t think so?”

“Excuse me." She cleared her airway and finished her tea. "Engagements entail having time and freedom to meet and court gentlemen. My current obligations reside in teaching William and preparing his lessons. That leaves me little to no time for anything else.”

“John, are you forcing the poor girl to work Saturdays and Sundays?”

“She spends much of her time on those days reading, planning her lectures, or entertaining Willie by other means.”

“Does she not attend chapel?” Louisa tossed Hermione a curious glance.

 “Admittedly, church attendance has not been a priority for any of us since leaving Hispaniola—”

“I do not,” inserted Hermione. “I am not of the Anglican faith, Your Ladyship. I was christened and baptized of the Greek Orthodox Church.”

If the woman was surprised to hear this, she didn’t seem shocked or offended. She simply nodded and asked, “Are you devout in your beliefs, Hermione?”

“That depends.” Hermione chuckled. “Is my mother around? If she is, then yes.”

“She is not,” Louisa declared amusedly, “so I understand you do not cling to such Catholic-like sentiments the Greek Church condones.”

“Oh...well, I wouldn't say I cling—”

“We have chapel tomorrow. John, Willie, and I will be attending. You will join us.”

Not an invitation but a blatant, unapologetic request. Also...attending church? Where? She, John, and Willie had to take a boat to get to the property.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense. The Lord will be pleased to see you away from all those statues of His mother as well as those arrogant and unneeded displays of worship.”

Hermione nearly crossed herself right then at Lady Dunsany’s flippant attitude towards the Theotokos.

His mother.

His mother?

Good thing Helena Granger wasn’t there, or else Lady Dunsany would be strangled and quite dead on the floor.

As for Hermione, she was offended and wanted to slap the woman good and proper. She looked to John for help and saw nothing but how entertained he was at his mother-in-law’s behavior, the bastard. Their eyes met, and his smirk bloomed into a full grin.

And then instantly snapped back into a grim frown for no reason.

Tea ended, and Hermione followed John into his study, closing the door behind her. “Thanks for your help in there, you traitorous monkey!”

He whirled around, shirking his frock. “Did you just call me a monkey?”

“What is that woman playing at? Demanding me to go to her church all the while insulting mine. The audacity of her! How dare she speak to me or anyone that way? Does she have any idea the hell she would’ve brought on herself if she ever said what she had in Greece. Or in Italy and France, for the matter.” Hermione pointed to the door. “Is that the sort of bollocks she's been spewing at Willie since the day he was born? Because it ends now.”

John stared at her dumbly, a mixture of emotions evolving over his face before settling on something akin to helplessness.

“She is his grandmother—”

“You’re his father,” Hermione snapped and then marched up to him, stabbing at his chest with her finger. He looked down at the digit, perplexed. “Willie will look to you when he decides what kind of man he wants to be in life. My role in his life is fleeting, John, and I am doing my best with him. You know and even approved the curriculum I’m teaching him, and he deserves to have you lead in that continuation. I want him to be a good and kind man. When he sees those who are different than him, I am fine with him being curious, but so help me, if I learn you’ve indulged his naughtiness and snobbery, I will…”

Hermione huffed, trying to think of what she would do when she got back to her time and read about the Ninth Earl of Elsmere’s antics.

She began to pace.

“I’m waiting,” said John, chuckling.

“Hush, I’m thinking of something awful like lemon juice on papercuts.”

John stopped her pacing by grabbing her arms and turning her to face him. “That is a brutal, godless punishment, Hermione. I would call you a heartless woman, but your devotion to Willie proves otherwise. You love him so much, don’t you? Is that why you refuse to remarry? So you can be with him longer?”

“It’s not like that—”

“When you remarry and if your husband is obliging, you could still be his governess.”

“I will not remarry. I told you this. When?” She stared up at him, her chin lifted high in obstinance.

His hands squeezed her arms, and he curtly nodded at her. “Then you must not attend chapel tomorrow.”

She shot him a confused look. “You’ll have to tell your mother-in-law—”

“Or go anywhere, for the matter.”

“I suppose I can stay inside.”

“You cannot ever leave the estate.”

“Excuse me?”

“We can never have guests, especially those who are unmarried men—”

“I don’t understand—”

“Or unhappily married men. Or…men at all.”

“John?”

“Yes?”

She regarded him sourly. “You are being ridiculous and making it sound that if I step an unaccompanied toe outside the estate line, I will be bombarded and flattened to the ground by proposals. We travelled across an ocean and through two states, and I managed to stay unwed the entire time.”

John’s grip on her tightened, and he surprisingly shook her a little bit. “Because I was right there and armed to the bloody teeth, you foolish girl! Christ Almighty, the advances I deflected on your behalf, and the nights I slept outside your door at the taverns and inns—”

“You did what?!”  Was that why he was there in the hallway asleep back in Cross Creek?

“Feigning ignorance of Willie sleeping next to you meant I did not have to worry as much because he was right there guarding you—”

“You slept outside my door all those nights? John, that is—”

“Men would come, Hermione. More often than not. Those two back in Cross Creek got the farthest, and I thank God you weren’t in the room.”

Hermione gaped up at him. A slick, icy sensation clustering in the pit of her stomach as she reflected on all the nights she slept soundly and, apparently, safely in a filthy tavern bed and blissfully unaware of what was occurring outside in the hallway. She was unsure what horrified her the most. That men had tried—two succeeded—to invade her rooms, or John sacrificing his own safety and sleep to ensure they had never got far in their perverse plans.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “John, I—”

The man paled. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“I wish you would’ve told me a long time ago—”

“What bloody good would that have done?”

“I don’t know, but letting me live my life in ignorance isn’t the answer. I thought you were just afraid you’d lose another governess.”

“I was. I am, but I am more terrified of your honor becoming compromised.”

Hermione scoffed. “You care too much. Let me worry about my honor for a change. It is mine, after all.”

He shook his head and brought her closer to him. “From what I’ve learned of you, Hermione Christakos, is that you are too careless with it, and the men here are far too unworthy. I can’t, in good faith, allow you alone to protect something so precious.”

“Oh, my God, what?” Had he lost his mind? Had the weight of protecting her cracked him? Why was he bringing his face so close to hers? Perhaps he believed that if their proximity decreased and he yelled at her good and loud, he’d further get his point across.

But John would cut out his own eyes before raising his voice in such a manner to a woman.

Had it been the last straw in restating her determined sense of independence? Was he going to roar in her face like a beastly lion? Backhand her? Put her over his knee and spank her.

If he tried to do any of those things, inflamed boils would erupt all over his body. It was a simple jinx, and Hermione didn’t need a wand to perform it well.

His forehead came to rest against her hairline, and he finally loosened his hold on her arms and glided them over her shoulders. He cupped her face, tilting her head back, so she could better glare up at him. The corner of his mouth almost twitched.

“Is there something on my face?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s the marmalade, I’m sure.” Her tongue darted out, licking around her lips before smacking them. “Did I get it all?”

John pulled away just enough, so she could see his exasperated scowl and the shaking of his head. “I’m afraid not, and there’s not much you can do. You will always have it.”

“The marmalade?”

“No, Hermione, your face. You will always have your wide, enchanting eyes that break hearts when they are filled with tears. You will always have the little freckles on your pink cheeks and little nose, and men would pay handsomely to stand close enough to count all of them. Your pretty mouth will always behold a glorious and disarming, child-like grin. Your late husband was incredibly fortunate to have had the luxury of kissing those lips and basking in the beaming glow of your sweet spirit.”

“Hm?” She blinked at him, her skin heating in embarrassment from his rather intimate praises. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he fancied her or something. A bubble of laughter popped out of her at the preposterous notion, and John swooped down and swallowed it with his mouth.

Chapter Text

“No, Hermione, your face. You will always have your wide, enchanting eyes that break hearts when they are filled with tears. You will always have the little freckles on your pink cheeks and little nose, and men would pay handsomely to stand close enough to count all of them. Your pretty mouth will always behold a glorious and disarming, child-like grin. Your late husband was incredibly fortunate to have had the luxury of kissing those lips and basking in the beaming glow of your sweet smile.”

“Hm?” She blinked at him, owlish, and she felt her skin heating in embarrassment from his rather intimate praises. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he fancied her or something. A bubble of laughter popped out of her at the preposterous notion, and John swooped down and swallowed it with his mouth.

A knock on the study door had him springing up and leaping a good three feet away from her. “Yes? Who is it?” he asked, attempting to not sounded distressed.

Mollified, Hermione touched her tingling lips.

“It’s me!” shouted a young person's voice. Not Willie’s.

Another knock and then a different voice belonging to a squeaky voiced teen boy—still not Willie’s—said, “And me!”

Knock, knock, KNOCK! “Me, too!” bellowed a little girl.

In the space of two seconds, John’s pallor went from red to pale green. He threw open the door and was greeted by three excited children.

“Uncle John!” screeched a little blonde girl, throwing her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly.

John patted the girl’s head affectionately. “Dottie, my darling, what a surprise this is. Henry and Adam, you two have gotten taller since I’ve last seen you. What fine young men you are becoming.”

The man half-turned to face her, smiling graciously. “Madam Christakos, may I present my two nephews and niece—Adam, Henry, and my little Dottie. Children, this is Madam Hermione Christakos. She is your cousin Willie’s governess.”

John hoisted the little girl up into his arms, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and arms around his neck. Following a loud smooch on his cheek, she popped her head over his shoulder, waving shyly. “Are you going to be my new governess? Ours ran off to Boston with a gunsmith.”

“The moment we made port in Alexandria. She met him on the boat,” Adam added, smirking.

Henry frowned at her, eyes slit in scrutiny. “Are you going to run off with a gunsmith, Madam Christakos?”

“Well…that depends,” Hermione quietly said, approaching the side of John and taking great care to put at least a foot or more between them.

“On what exactly?” Adam asked suspiciously.

“I will only take my leave in favor of New Jersey. However, since Massachusetts has been brought mind, Salem does sound appealing."

John inhaled sharply, kissed Dottie’s cheek, and then set her down.

“My father tells me those are horrible places, Madam,” said Adam.

“Some of the most seemingly horrible places can be full of intrigue and adventure.”

The young man who couldn’t be older than fifteen stood to his full height, puffing out his chest. “Such things aren’t suitable for a gentlelady like yourself.” He entered the study and offered his arm. “Shall I escort you to the tearoom, Madam? My mother, the Duchess of Pardloe, would like a word with you. Uncle John, Father is looking for you. He's instructing the groomsmen how to care for our horses out in the stables.”

Preferably, Hermione would rather return to her bedroom, sit at the vanity, and stare at her own reflection. Maybe if she studied her own face long enough, she'd come to understand what all the fuss was about. When she was done with that, she could sit on her bed, contemplate the kiss John unexpectedly laid on her, and then have a nap.

Unfortunately, the Duchess of Pardloe shan’t be kept waiting. With a sour stomach and rapidly beating heart, Hermione returned to the tearoom. Lady Louisa Dunsany was right where Hermione left her, enjoying another round of tea, scones, and sandwiches alongside her new guest.

Adam guided her to the sofa on the opposite side of the coffee tale. “Mother, this is William’s governess, Madam Hermione Christakos. Madam Christakos, may I present the Duchess of Pardloe?”

Hermione curtseyed accordingly, feeling herself grow both common and increasingly distant from her middle-class, Surrey upbringing. “Your Grace, it is an honor and privilege to make your acquaintance.”

The duchess cast a sly, side-glance to Lady Louisa. “You were not exaggerating, Louisa.”

“I told you, Minnie, did I not?”

The Duchess of Pardloe—aka, Minnie—gestured for Hermione to sit, and Adam needlessly helped her to do so before offering her a serviette to drape across her lap and pouring her a cup of tea.

“You are so kind,” she told the boy, saluting him with her cup.

He bowed at the two older women and then at her, taking Hermione’s hand in his and kissing the back of it. “Your servant, Madam.”

“Thank you."

The moment Adam took his leave, the duchess lowered her cup and pounced. “Madam Christakos, I summoned you to ask an important question. Now that I see you, I must make another inquiry. How you’ve managed to stay in my dear brother-in-law’s employment for as long as you have?”

“I beg your pardon. I don’t think I understand the question.”

“So humble.” The duchess chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. “Now that you’re settled here in Virginia, dear John will not be able to keep you long. He did you a great kindness in hiring you, and I will not have you humiliate, not only him, but my darling nephew the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere, by terminating your employment in marrying beneath you.”

“I have already begun on a tentative social calendar for her,” said Louisa. “She’s attending chapel with us tomorrow. There will be plenty of evenings spent at the theatre with the symphonies and plays being performed. Governor Spotswood is hosting both a gala the first week of December and a ball later that month.”

“She’ll need gowns, mind. Monday, you and I will arrange for the fabric and tailor. I dare say, she’ll be engaged by Christmas.”

“A spring wedding, how marvelous.”

“In the meantime, Hermione,” Minnie said, returning her attention back to the woman of subject, “my children need a governess until my family returns to England in May. Given your imminent nuptials, this will work out superbly for all parties involved. My dear Hal is a fair employer and will take in consideration the needs of each one of our children. He will pay you a wage rivaling a dowry. I understand you did not have one your first time marrying.”

The last part was not a question; therefore, Hermione did not answer.

Not that her mind and tongue were capable of such extraordinary gifts such as high-functioning thought or speech at that moment.

Her hand trembled, the teacup clinking against its saucer.

Following her second bout of teatime, a dense fog had taken residence inside Hermione’s mind. Numb and silent, she followed Louisa and Minnie around the estate, every now and then attempting to escape. Minnie noticed her skittishness and by the time they made it to the parlor, their arms were linked, and Hermione was trapped.

In more ways than one.

They traipsed upstairs, downstairs, through the dining hall, and outside to see the bountiful vegetable garden, tobacco field, and the humble-sized indigo patch. From there, they paid a visit to the stables. Their passing-by included witnessing a groomsmen delivering a foal and another who kept a safe distance away from a monstrous-sized Friesian stud, the color of shiny tar, coupling with her mare, Barbie. 

Two hours later, Minnie finally let go of her at the bottom of the stairs.

“We should all freshen up before dinner. I look forward to getting to know you better, Hermione,” Minnie said. “Afterwards, Louisa and I will retire to the tearoom. You should join us in a game of piquet.”

“What an excellent idea. Now about those gowns for her, I’m thinking one of them canary yellow,” said Louisa. Arm linking through Minnie’s, the two fluttered away in a mass of petticoats and planning.

“Hermione would look bewitching in such a shade,” replied Minnie.

Once they were out of sight, she trudged towards the kitchen, and poked her head through the swing door. Dinner was in a couple of hours, and she didn’t want to wait. Whatever was simmering in a pot closest to her smelled absolutely divine. Her belly growled. The single half-scone with marmalade from the first bout of tea was not enough. Caroline looked up from the floured surface of the countertop where she kneaded a large quantity of dough.

“May I help you with somethin’, ma’am?” she asked.

“I-I know that dinner isn’t for a while, but I was wondering if—”

Caroline stopped kneading and pinned her with a serious expression. “You hungry?”

Hermione bit her lip, nodding, eyes drifting to the boiling pot. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

The woman made a humming sound, returning to knead her dough, almost smiling. “You’re an odd one, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying, but I can’t let you go hungry. Winter’s coming, and she’s ruthless in these parts. We got to get some meat on those bones of yours. I’ll have Charlotte bring a tray to your room.”

The boiling concoction on the stove had Hermione wringing her fingers in anticipation. “What’s…in that pot?”

Caroline glanced at the aforementioned pot. “Soup.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know if you’d like it, ma’am. Many folk call it a peasant’s dish. I'm afraid it's only fit to feed the help tonight.”

Hermione ducked her head, cheeks pinking. “Well, it smells very good, and my palate does not necessarily distinguish dishes based on social hierarchy. Of course, I wouldn’t want to put anyone out of receiving a meal. Anything will suit.”

Caroline’s features blossomed into playfulness. “Lord John was lookin’ for you, ma’am. Just a little while ago.”

“He’ll find me soon enough, I’m sure.”

Caroline placed her rounded ball of dough in a large, wooden dish, ticking her head towards the pot. “I'll see what we can scrounge up for you, ma'am.”

“Thank you, and if I could have some water with it, I’d be ever so grateful. I feel like all I’ve been doing for the last several months is drinking tea and alcohol.”

The woman went over to the pot, stirring the contents within it. “I’d be happy to, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I’m delighted to try it; you have no idea.” Hermione retracted her head out of the kitchen and headed back towards the stairs.

Caroline raised her eyebrows and smirked at the swinging door. “No, ma’am. You have no idea.”

“Hermione, there you are!” John called to her from the top of the stairs and all but flung himself down them to get to her that much faster. “Where have you been? I’ve been searching all over for you.”

Eyes squeezing shut and sighing in exhaustion, she swayed on her feet. Her hand reached out and clenched the banister for support. She hated doing this but staying wasn’t an option. “I have to leave, John.”

A greenish hue exploded over his face. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t do this. I have to leave. I…I should’ve stayed behind with Claire. I shouldn’t have come here.” Hot tears of frustration and hunger burned her eyes. She just wanted to eat and run away. “This was a mistake. I need to go and be away from here and all this lord and lady bother. I don’t belong here and fear my only option is to grovel my case in Salem—"

"That's terribly far. A day's journey or so."

"We already talked about this. Massachusetts."

"Well, that is entirely out of the question."

"You don't understand," she said, a tear escaping down her cheek. A crisp and creased white handkerchief appeared in front of her, and she buried her face in it.

“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.”

Hermione sensed the air shifting, and she peaked her blurry eyes over the damp linen and saw John on his knees in front of her.

“What are you doing down there?”

“Seeking your forgiveness for my iniquitous behavior. I am thoroughly ashamed of my actions and plead you reconsider in taking your leave. If you cannot find it in your heart to grant my absolution, then I beg of you to think of Willie. He needs you, Hermione. You are more than just a teacher to him.”

Lowering the cloth, Hermione stared down at him, recalling the study and John’s iniquitous behavior. Her horrid afternoon with Louisa and Minnie had all but shoved The Kiss into a distant and deep crevice because there were far worse things afoot than her employer’s befuddling actions.

“Stand up, John,” she said tiredly. “Let’s go find a place to talk.”

In hindsight, leading him up the stairs and inviting him into her room was not the best idea. Optimism and the need for privacy had fueled that decision. Once they spoke and all was out in the open, she’d shove John out the door and burrow safely in the sheets of her bed where she would devise an escape plan. Flee the estate before dawn and plan her journey north.

The idea of returning to Fraser Ridge appealed more to Hermione than traveling north during the winter months. She had a parcel for them anyway. And there was no guarantee the obnoxiously racist magical community in 18^th century Salem would help her.

Closing her bedroom door, she rested her head against the wood and drummed her fingers against it.

Decisions, decisions, none of them easy.

Inhaling deeply, she turned to face John who fumbled with the oil lamp at her nightstand. “Your family is here,” she squeaked out conversationally.

“I had no idea my brother…” John trailed off, and he began to pace. “He and Minnie wanted to be here for myself and Willie in the wake of Isobel’s death during the holiday season. They think I need comfort and closure, but I know Mother sent him to encourage me in finding another wife before I once more find myself overly comfortable in a blissful state of bachelorhood.”

Hermione's eye twitched at the mention of Minnie. “Um…after spending my afternoon with the Duchess of Pardloe, I can most assuredly say you will not escape her clutches unscathed.”

“Oh, Hermione, what did she say to you?” He reached out his arms towards her and then faltered.

“She meant well, but I just...” Another wave of tears hit her, and she sniffed, wiping under her eyes with the back of her sleeve. John stepped closer to her, cautious, and she looked up at him. The light from the lamp illuminated the left side of his face and brightened the blue in his eyes. Her gaze then drifted down to his chest and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than rest her head there and be held for a little while until she fell asleep. “I miss home,” she confessed.

“Home,” John repeated softly, though his expression was tight.

Hermione threw her hands up in surrender. “Yes. And my husband. Despite everything.” Her right thumb and pointer finger touched her wedding ring. “Before the Frasers were robbed, Claire wore both her wedding rings.”

“Is that what you will do when you remarry?”

“I best get out of here before I have to make that choice. You’re not the only one your sister-in-law has plans for. She’s already planning a mid-May wedding.”

“Of course, she is. Do I dare ask who’ll the groom be?”

“I don’t think she cares so long as he’s rich. Ending my employment for anything less would be a slight and an insult against you and William’s family. I wanted to explain to her I wasn’t leaving—”

“You said you just were—”

“Well, I want to now because the determined minds of Duchess of Pardloe and Lady Dunsany frighten me. I've never dealt well with women like them."

"Women like them?"

"Strong-willed and overly opinionated. It wouldn't be so unpleasant if I shared their sentiments, and since I don't and have no wish to offend them..." She sighed grumpily. " It's not my time to leave, John, but I also don’t want to remarry.”

“You’re saying your desire to leave is not because of my ill-mannered advance upon you?”

Hermione supposed it could be seen as ill-mannered of John to kiss her without permission. The handful of romantic interests she’d experienced in her life, only one of them had verbally asked for her consent concerning a first shared kiss and that had been Viktor. He’d been her first kiss all together. The others to follow had either been sprung upon her—both rudely and in welcome—or there had been a silent, mutual understanding.

Categorically, John’s actions fell into the “sprung-upon” section, and Hermione did not always condemn the offenders. She married one. After awkwardly attending Crookshanks’ rather humble burial at The Burrow, Draco lost his ever-fluffing mind when she cried in his arms and told him he was a good friend for coming to show his support.

The man had grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her like ragdoll, and bluntly told her never once in his wretched life or hers had he ever wanted to be one of her stupid friends. He tongued her quite thoroughly after that. Then he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a fat and fluffy white kitten and told her the little imp needed a mum.

John has yet to provide her a small, needy creature to soothe her woes (unless counting Willie who was certainly not small). What he had done was throw her completely off guard. For God’s sake, she believed him homosexual.

‘I thought you were gay,’ did not seem like a swell way to respond to John’s question.

“I was not planning to leave because of that, but now that we are on the subject…” She had two question. One for him and one for herself. The first was the obvious. Why did he kiss her? The second was…did Hermione like it enough not kick him in balls for it? “Why did you kiss me?”

His blue eyes widened, and his lips parted in surprise. “I thought I made it quite obvious, Hermione.”

Draco…and others had said similar sentences to her when she inquired about certain behaviors they displayed towards her.

The kind, intimate words he spoke to her in the study flooded back, and she blushed at the memory. A knock on the door had her nearly jumping out of her skin, though calming quick at remembering she was expecting a delivery. To be safe, though, she asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s Charlotte, ma’am. My mama sent me up.”

Hermione ignored John’s frown and opened the door just enough to poke her hands out to collect the tray from Charlotte who said, "Mama said this will make your belly big and full."

"Thank you so much, darling. Truly. I’ll take it from here.”

Hermione carefully balanced the tray and closed the door. She brought the tray to her desk and removed the cloche.

“I never did get a chance to eat a decent meal today,” she said. Her beam of happiness was short-lived, however, when seeing the huge bowl of the coveted soup. “Oh my. Does she think I’m hiding a small army up here?”

John’s face appeared over her shoulder, his gaze narrowed on the bowl. “What is it?”

Hermione waved her hands over the steam, wafting them towards her face. “Some kind of soup.” Dipping the spoon into the chili-like substance, she blew a cooling breath on it and took a bite. Her eyes rolled back into her head. “Oh, my God, this so good.”

A growling stomach made its presence known, and the sound came from behind her. “I didn’t see you eat at tea, either.”

“My appetite had waned then, and my brother also kept me quite occupied this afternoon.”

Hermione took another bite of soup, humming in appreciation. When she went for the third scoop, she offered it to John. “There is plenty, and I will not insult Caroline by returning a dish that isn’t empty.”

He took the spoon from her and hesitantly tasted the soup. “I'm detecting a strong flavor of sherry.”

“Is that what I’m tasting?”

He ate the rest of what was on the spoon. “I think so. The meat, I’m not sure.”

The two went back and forth eating the soup and sharing the spoon until Hermione just started feeding John directly. Soon enough, a strange, pleasant warmth began to bloom in her belly. Her breathing became strained; her face feeling unbearably hot. “That soup had a kick of spice, didn’t it? I really like it, but my face must be so red.”

John sipped her cup of water. “You are certainly pink.”

Drawing in a strained breath, Hermione groaned and stood up, her hands cupping her sides and back. “My stays. They're so tight; I’m struggling to breathe.”

“Drink some of this.” He brought the water cup to her lips, and she sipped slowly.

It helped, but she needed more. Or less. Or both. More breath, less confinement. “I need…I need more.” Her fingers clumsily fiddled with the buttons on her bodice. “Good God, how much sherry was in that? And I think she snuck in a pepper sauce.”

The buttons came loose but not by her own feeble attempts. “Let me help you,” John said, undoing her bodice. Hermione watched in fascination as the green dress fell from her person. The shutters were open, and the rays of the late afternoon light hit the fabric.

Starting from the bottom, John hooked his fingers on the crisscrossed strings of her stays. When he got halfway up, the panels were laxed enough she could breathe without trouble. Blessed oxygen filled her lungs, and her hands came to his, stilling them. Her head felt cloudy, and the blood in her veins ran hot and fast. That ball of warmth nestled in her belly seeped further south.

The kiss John shared with her had been brief yet left her lips tingling all the same. If they hadn’t been interrupted, what would’ve happened?

Her smaller fingers interlaced in his longer ones, and he pulled her close to him, his lips brushing her hairline. Something much, much lower brushed the petticoat’s fabric covering her belly.  

“Do you feel it, too?” he asked and then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “God, please tell me I’m not alone.”

“Uh…” What she felt was something akin to being under the influence of a dangerous substance, and it wasn't the pepper sauce.

A ton of alcohol and maybe something else. An aphrodisiac, maybe. A tiny part of her brain was still attempting to function, albeit reluctantly and sluggishly and quietly. That small nodule, however, was not discouraging her away from John. It was telling her she would be pushing him away if she truly wasn’t curious, at least on a physical level.

John was attractive, yes, but up until his lips touched hers, she hadn’t been attracted to him. There were too many factors at play for her to have developed any sort of crush on him.

Speaking damningly pretty and poetic words of flattery and kissing her shifted that perspective enough. John clearly saw her more than his employee or even his ally and comrade in the battle that was the schooling of Willie. When his own shift happened remained to be seen. It couldn't have been that long ago, for he was pining for Jamie Fraser before their visit to the Ridge.

Frighteningly enough, this was how it happened with Draco—the sudden, stomach-swoop teetering of romantic, lustful feelings. In the space of a minute, she’d went from considering him nothing more than a friend to becoming her everything.

No.

No.

John would not be her everything. She couldn’t allow that. Not again. Not so soon, and certainly not so far from home.

“I…” She tried again, wanting to tell him she didn’t feel that way towards him and never would. Apologize for making him think she felt anything for him other than respect and platonic friendliness.

Her tongue felt heavy from all the important things she wanted to say to him. The truth about herself among them and how she didn’t belong here. One day, very soon, she would have to leave. She was married, and her wedding ring could and would never leave her finger until she or Draco died.

His lips skimmed the bridge of her nose. “I know I can never replace or compete with the love you had for you late husband, but hearts are so rarely fixed, Hermione, and yours is such a generous vessel of potential.”

“I can’t do it. Not again and not here,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision as he kissed the corner of her mouth. Her arms reached up to wrap around his neck and pressed her nose to his. “My heart can’t take it.”

“Your heart is not too small that you can’t make room for a little more—”

She shook her head slightly, their lips caressing each other’s in a not-kiss. “We’ll crash and burn. We won’t be enough for each other. You’ll come to hate me. I’ll have to leave soon.”

His hands drifted down, cupping her bum through her petticoats, and lifting her feet from the ground. “Why do you keeping circling back to leaving?”

“Because—”

John captured her lips with his in a lingering kiss. Fiery, lava shot through her veins, igniting her heart, and pooling at her core. An overwhelming wave of feeling, not only wanted, but of safety had her clinging desperately to him despite the deep precipice they were both looming by. Nothing but unimaginable hurt leading to inevitable destruction would come if they chose to lose their footing. The first part of the fall would be jolting, nonetheless exciting, followed the rushing thrill of gravity. With John, there would be no parachute that was forsaking their parents and clinging to each other. There would be no building a life together and maybe John wasn't worried about that, but Hermione was. She wasn't built for casual flings nor drunken ones.

Pulling away briefly, he said, “You don’t have to leave, Hermione. We shall stay in this very room forever,” before kissing her again.

He teetered on the edge saying such damnable nonsense, and he was going to pull her down with him. She parted from him, her reply damp and equally absurd. “I am like Mary Poppins. I told you and Willie about her. I will have to go someday. I’ll fly away. Far away. Maybe on an umbrella.”

“I will fly away with you."

"Oh, my God. Don't say that." She kissed him again and again and one more time. "You have no idea, John. You really don't." 

"Would it ease your mind to say I prefer you as a Maria?”

“Maria." Her legs slithering upwards to wrap around his waist. Her ankles locked at his lower back. “I’m not a nun.”

John began walking somewhere, and his tongue licked passed the seam of her lips. “And I am forever grateful.”

He gingerly laid her down on the bed like she was wobbly bauble of porcelain. Head nestled in the pillow, she watched him shirk his waistcoat. The sun’s rays bathed the side of John’s face in a warm, golden glow. He lowered himself, laying on his side flush against her, brushing her jawline with his fingers. Then with his lips and tongue, he stole her breath away again.

His mouth never left hers as he rubbed at her neck and then the swell of her bosom. He didn’t try to fondle her over the shift and loosened stays but boldly dipped his hand down the front of her shift, cupping her left breast. Hermione arched her back, moaning and grabbing at his cravat while her other hand crept down his front. Beneath the cotton shirt, solid leanness pressed into her palm. Reaching the top of his breeches, she undid the top button, and his thumb skirted over her nipple. It dawned on Hermione, this man would most certainly make love to her unless she put a stop to him.

Her thoughts shifted to Draco. A small part of her had conceded that when she returned to her time and to her life, if her husband would get the mental help he needed, they might be able to work things out. She had made an equivalent of an Unbreakable Vow to him and to live her life resenting him would solve nothing and embitter her. Down the road, she’d likely forgive him. Despite her profession, she could be merciful. They may be able to start anew. Blaise had once pointed out she harbored a soft spot for the men in her life, and he was absolutely correct. Hermione adored the boys in her circle because each and everyone of them needed her.

However, the larger part of Hermione knew the relationship part of her marriage to Draco was over, and they would have to live separately for the rest of their lives. How could she ever trust him again? She had no idea the extent of his obsession with stone circles, nor how deep he was digging into their mythology. There was this whole other life he had kept from her, and he had to have been plotting to kill her for a year if not more. He would’ve tried at Craigh na Dun, she guessed, but the last-minute change to the Dominican Republic could’ve meant someone caught a whiff of his plan.

Maybe Adrian.

More likely, it was Theo.

Adrian would’ve gladly helped Draco murder her.

As she contemplated the possibilities, a choking groan erupted those musings. She realized she unfastened John’s trousers, and her hand was stroking him. Hermione decided if anyone was going to put a stop this, it wasn’t going to be her.

Hermione dizzily smiled. Concerns of stone circles, murderous endeavors, and even adultery fled the scene.

John’s sex face was the best.

Her other hand delved further into the parting of his trousers—both hands in the cookie jar—cupping the delicate roundness of him there. Massaging him. Studying him in all the ways which mattered. With her eyes and with her hands, learning what he liked but also taking note that he was clean, smooth, and ideally sized. No indications of sores, scabs, or rash. 

Her stroking hand sped up, and he was still trying to do something or other to her breast, and it was nice and all, but she wondered if she could intensify the ripples of emotion scrunching up his face. Removing his grip from beneath her shift, she sat up, a look of contrition on his face which she ignored. She pulled at the hem of his cotton shirt and lifted it over his head.

She nibbled away his pout and then moved to press her lips sweetly above the stitches she sewed on his bicep. He appeared to be healing well enough. "Does it still hurt, my lord?"

He swallowed, shaking his head no.

"Good." Her fingernails lightly scratched from his neck down his torso. Her mouth moved to follow behind, peppering wet, open-mouthed kisses. Her teeth grazed along his skin. When she got below his belly button—which was undeniably cute—he bristled beneath her and grabbed at her hair to keep her still.

“Hermione, no,” he said weakly.

“Hermione, yes.”

“You are not a wh—”

Before he could verbally land his astute observation, he started—rather ironically—making choking sounds. 

The way his face looked then…

Like it was killing him how much he was enjoying himself.

After another feeble attempt at removing her mouth, John couldn’t, in good conscious, let himself relax right away under her skillful ministrations, nor did he have the moral strength to bodily buck her off him. The sinful things her tongue was doing; it was obscene for a lady of her delicate standing...

Damn his eyes and body to hell, she was humming.

Like so many other tasks she performed—whether it be lecturing William or disputing a fragile, political and moral topic with John—her current endeavor was being executed with a ruthlessly dominant approach that would ensure her victory.

He helplessly glanced down, forcing his eyelids open, braving to face the woman who would surely kill him. Her large, almond-shaped eyes appeared almost slanted from the way her eyelashes winged outwards towards her temples.

They were not eyes of blue, nor were the shape truly slanted.

John did not wish them to be. Not currently, anyway.

It was then he surrendered to her and let himself sink into the feather mattress. He imagined himself descending into his own grave. For surely, his life was over, and nothing would be the same again. In that moment, he finally understood—as foolishly male, as it was—why her husband forsook his parents, social worth, and betrothal for this woman.

The pointer and middle finger of her left hand tip-tapped up his chest. Despite the circumstances, he glared unhappily at the ring adorning that particular fourth digit. The jewel piece was an eye-catching curiosity and lavishly expensive in design and workmanship. It possessed a rounded cut, one carat diamond nestled at the top with no fewer than six smaller diamonds cozily embedded into the golden band.

Beautiful and undoubtedly costly; Hermione could have broken down and sold the ring—one diamond at a time— and lived comfortably a good while instead of resorting to becoming a governess.

Alas, she would not part with it, and he was reminded of her stubborn, adamant refusal of remarrying .

Those two sneaky fingers from earlier languidly circled his right nipple. Her humming resumed, the tune enthusiastically silly but nonetheless effective.

John agreed to her sentiment for reasons far different and much more selfish than they had been months ago. He mustn’t let her remarry and wished to keep her for himself. Less than a fortnight ago, she mentioned living in sin if she were ever to find herself attached to another man. The notion had hypocritically appalled him, not wanting her to suffer public backlash or judgement.

Within a week—or perhaps in the space of five minutes—he changed his mind. He wanted to be appalling with her and privately so, mind. No one needed to know what was taking place between them. John was used to keeping his sordid dalliances clandestine, and the current situation called for such grave secrecy. Though Hal may be vaguely pleased at John for finding a woman to warm his bed out of choice rather than necessity for the sake of outward appearance, his brother would not appreciate Hermione’s middle-class background nor her bullheaded countenance—

John tossed his head back, struggling for breath as his spine slightly bowed. Oh, blasted mercy! What a wicked and godless creature! Perfectly cared-for teeth gently scraped him. Two fingers—damp and somewhat sticky from something—wriggled their way towards—

No!

Hermione contemplated John and wondered if he was a screamer. She hoped so, but she also wondered how quiet he could make himself be when the occasion called for such discretion.

They were safely alone in her bedroom, but the estate was far from empty. With the crook of a wet finger or two, she could probably make him alert every living soul inside the house. Bringing them all up the stairs, bursting down her door to ensure Lord John Grey was pleasurably alive and not, in fact, being horrendously attacked.

John yanked on her curls, her comb slipping out and undoing all of Charlotte’s painstakingly hard work in two seconds. Hermione reluctantly retracted her hand and placed her palm over his while finishing up her latest tune of The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music. The throbbing in her jaw lessened once she freed him, and she wasted no time in colliding with her next pursuit. If she hesitated or he stopped her, then it would be all over.

Hermione didn’t want it to end. Not until she got to see what John’s face looked like upon climax. If he wouldn’t allow her the privilege of watching him while she swallowed his release…

Rising just enough to swing her leg over his hips, she sunk down upon him. Her slick inner muscles, snug from months of celibacy, twitched and flexed in accommodation.

…she would punish him in kind for it. Hermione started her movement—barbaric and filthy gyrations— intending to get what she wanted from him by other nefarious means. By God, she’d make him beg for mercy

Ever the gentleman, he sought her pleasure before his own, sneaking his hands under the bunched folds of her petticoats. She patiently waited for him to find the buried treasure and was not in any hurry to find her climax that way. Very much enjoying his delightfully pained expressions.

“Hermione, I can’t…I can’t withhold much. Please—”

His thumb found the hidden gem, and she gasped out a soft laugh. He sat up and crashed his lips into hers, she shoved him back down into his rightful place.

“You stay right there,” she growled. Her fingernails, simply blunt and rounded, sweetly scratched down his right nipple. The simple bit of pleasure was what finally drove him over the edge, and God, was the spectacle worth the aching jaw, juicy sex flush, and burning leg-muscles. At the sheer sight of it, her own awaited climax burst through her. She tossed back her head and bit her lip to keep from moaning too loudly.

For several moments, nothing but their struggled breathing filled the room and eventually, John coaxed her down to him. She all but collapsed on his chest, and he rolled her onto the bed but kept her shaking form close to his own. He kissed her sweaty forehead and then the space between her brow. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“Holy fuck,” she muttered, burying the side of her sweaty, blotchy face into the pillow.

“Yes, my dear. Indeed, it was."

Chapter Text

A minute passed, and Hermione's breathing evened. As tempting as it was to close his own eyes and join her in rest, John could not risk oversleeping and arrive late for dinner or miss the event all together. Hermione, he could cleverly supply to their guests, that she was feeling faint from the long journey and had retired to bed early after a private dinner in her room. If they both failed to join the dining table, the night would most assuredly result in a full course meal involving an English specialty made up of encroaching curiosity followed by a dessert aptly named Ruin and Scandal.

At thirty-nine, John was not a young lad anymore, and he had to use all his physical and mental strength not to plunge into a drunken, lethargic nap. The room was warm. The late, afternoon light pouring through the window heated the room as did the glowing embers in the hearth. Smearing a hand down his face, he jostled away from the tempting clutches of the feather mattress and promptly got out of bed. He had done well in not letting such familiar gestures like falling asleep next to a new lover become a habit. But the sleeping woman did paint a treasuring portrait.

Hermione shifted onto her back, her arm flung itself to rest by her head, wayward curls fanning around her. Swollen lips parting, her beath evened out once more. Her chest rose and fell in rhythm. One of her breasts was exposed due to the disarrayed state of her shift and loosened stays. The scene nearly enticed him to rejoin her both in bed and body. He wanted to rouse her slowly and sweetly from her recent journey into the land of dreams by suckling on her nipple.

Would she squirm and keen underneath his ministrations? Arch her back, part her legs, and beg him to touch her in the most intimate of places?

Or…

Would she grunt and whine and attempt to elbow him in the face and make it clear to him they had their fun and she was sleeping?

This part of their relationship was new, and he was unsure how she would respond by being awoken by such erotic methods. From what he knew about her, he could only envision the latter.

After redressing, John pick up her discarded green dress and drape it over the chair in front of her vanity. He then stooped over her and whispered in her ear, “I must make my leave now, my dear. Worry not in dining with everyone tonight. I’ve prepared an excuse for you.”

“Hmph.”

He kissed her temple and carefully righted her shift to cover her breast, lustily desiring, instead, to massage the modest roundness of it.

She made another grumbling sound, vaguely reaching for him in her unconscious state. He caught her hand and placed his pressed small, chaste kisses on each knuckle. “Sleep well. I will return to you tonight.”

“Hmmm,” she noised sleepily, smacking her lips adorably together.

Well after ten in the evening, when the children and everyone else in the house were abed, John lingered outside Hermione’s door and pressed his ear against it before summoning the courage to enter. He dared not knock in case someone—anyone—down the hall heard him. Both his brother’s chambers and the nursery were down that way. A bloody miracle no one had heard their earlier activities.

“Hermione,” he whispered into the dimly lit room, locking the door behind him. He spotted her at the desk. She looked over her shoulder, and he could see she wore a chamber robe. Her wild mane hung heavily down her back and was unfettered from any sort of ribbon, pins, or combs.

“Oh, um…oh, dear. You came back. Hello,” she said quietly, cheeks flushing red hot and avertedly turned her attention back to her quill and paper.

“Were you hoping I wouldn’t?” he asked, masking his hurt. “I understand you may house regrets. Neither of us were quite ourselves earlier. I dare say, that soup had to have been mostly sherry. You may not even remember…”

Her quilling ceased, and he could hear her tapping the tip of it on her paper. “I remember everything.”

“Do you wish we not speak of it?” He had brought a dish of maple pudding for her and set it on her bedside table. He came up beside her and knelt. “We can both pretend it never happened.”

She looked down at him, her fist clenching around quill so tightly, he was certain she’d snap it in half. “Don’t do that?” she lamented, discarding her goose-feather instrument with a pout.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that with your perfect blue eyes.”

“Forgive me. They are the only pair I have.”

He watched her resolve break, and she stood and reached for him. He burrowed the side of his face into in the soft space between her ribs. His arms wrapped around her waist, inhaling her mild scent of sherry and lemon peel mixed with a touch of musky rose water. He stirred in his trousers, for the third scent had come from him, owing to their earlier activities.

“I don’t want to pretend it never happened,” she said grievously. “I don’t think I could if I tried. And we can’t, in good conscious, start this affair. It would be a horrible idea, John. I could start a list right now, but we would be here for two or three centuries. So I stand by what I said earlier. If I don’t leave first, we will come to dislike each other soon enough.”

“There you go again with all this leaving bother—”

“Because,” she hissed, squishing his cheeks and forcing him to look up. “I am a governess, and Willie will return to England for university before we know it. And it’s not like there is only physical need involved. I know you better than you think, and I know myself. There are feelings. You wouldn’t have kissed me in your office if you hadn’t any, and I wouldn’t have let you the second time if I didn’t care about you in that way.”

She knelt, too, and their foreheads met. “All evening, I’ve been contemplating scenarios, but I keep coming back to the truth. I may not let you in my bed tonight or even tomorrow. Weeks could pass in the same way. Eventually, though, my longing for you would overcome all my faculties. I loved it. I loved—”

John captured her lips before she talked herself away from the cliff. She may have more self-restraint, but he certainly didn’t want to don such a noble characteristic at the moment. He loathed the possibility of sitting back and waiting for Hermione’s lusty clock to alert her of such a crucial event.

“I loved…” Hermione tried again, struggling to form words as he suckled her bottom lip. “I loved watching you. I loved having you inside me. I loved the way you tasted.”

Damn everything, he had wanted to have her again, yes, but back in his room which was downstairs and away from the slumbering children and his brother. She had struck an impatient chord in him with her winsome bawdiness. It helped little when she shifted her bottom to the rug, parted the lower half of her robe, and spread her stocking-covered legs obscenely wide.

His gaze dropped to her most secret of parts. A location he had yet to see with his own eyes. Entranced, he crawled closer to his target—his eyes straining for a closer look—and then came to an abrupt and doleful stop when her right foot sprung up and pressed against his left shoulder.

“You have to promise me something, John Grey, if we are to go forward with this,” she said.

“Whatever it is you want, it's yours.” Taking advantage of the close appendage, he loosened the cinching of her stocking and began lowering it. Confusion set in as more of her skin was revealed to him. “Within reason,” he added belatedly. “Dear God, woman, your legs. They’re so smooth. Not a hair on them and so…” He groped her calve muscle and then her thigh. “Defined. I hadn’t realized Greece still trained female athletes.” He ran his late evening shadow up the side of her calve. “Did you train and compete in the nude?”

"Something like that. Anyway, when it’s my time to go, whenever that may be, you will accept my resignation with the upmost of your English dignity and respect.”

Nonsense. She was speaking nonsense. He replaced his scruff with the skimming of his lips when he reached her inner knee. “I said within reason, Hermione, but we can discuss those trivial matters later?”

His tongue was most jealous of his cock’s earlier visiting privileges which had taken place at an indecent afternoon hour, no less.

“There’s another thing."

“It can wait.”

Hermione shook her head, retaking her leg to stand. Untying the sash of her robe, she completely removed the garment which pooled around her feet. “Do not be alarmed,” she stated firmly. “I have had this half my life, and there is nothing to be done for it.”

Straightening her shoulders, she stood before him naked, save for her one stocking. She brought her hands to the upper sides of her stomach, thumbs framing her ribs. John surged to his feet, stumbled over to her, and bravely ran an inquiring finger beneath her breasts.

“What in God’s name happened here?” he seethed. Jesus Christ, it looked like a dull, rusted forge knife had been taken to her ribs.

“Someone tried to kill me,” she said in an unnervingly bright voice.

“I beg your bloody pardon!”

“A long time ago.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I would say about fifteen years ago—”

“Pray why at sixteen years old would someone try to murder you, Hermione?”

She folded her arms, glaring up at him. “I’d say you could go and bloody ask him if you’re so goddamned curious, but he’s dead.”

“Was he hanged or beheaded for his crime by your government?”

“No.”

“Did your father kill him?” John further invaded her space, his jaw ticking in anger.

“No."

“Did he perish at the hands of your husband then?”

Hermione pressed her lips together and then looked down at the floor. “It's a possibility. I never knew for sure but always speculated he and...my brother went outside the law to take care of it.”

Good. That was good. It'd be terribly inconvenient but not impossible for John to sail to Greece and conduct a manhunt.

“Is this any connection to the scar on your arm—”

She silenced him by holding him close to her, resting her cheek on his chest. “Is it truly your desire to talk about bad memories when there is a naked and willing woman before you? If it is, that woman will not be naked a moment longer. She will redress and have you promptly ousted to your own bedroom while she resides here, decidedly put out and unsullied. Who is to say she will allow you such an honor again?”

He returned the embrace, inclining his head to rest on her own, reflecting on the nights he spent outside her tavern rooms and the wretched beasts who’d come boldly bolstering dishonorably monstrous intent. If John had been blind to their intrigue of her and was not present…

“I cannot bear the thought of harm coming to you, Hermione.”

Her fingers uncoiled his cravat and unbuttoned his vest. She raised up on her toes and kissed the underside of his jaw. “It was a long time ago, I am all right now,” she whispered. “Did you bring me something?”

John let her remove his vest and then his shirt. “Uh…yes. Dessert for you.”

Her hands smoothed over his torso, brushing her lips daintily over the skin his chest. “Oh?”

“Maple pudding.”

She beamed up at him and then latched her mouth onto a nipple, her teeth softly scraping against the delicate skin. His breath caught in his throat, and a pleased shiver crawled up his spine. He heard her inhale deeply, and her hands reached for his breeches.

“I love how groomed and clean you are. You smell almost perfectly,” she murmured after releasing him with a wet pop.

“Almost?”

She bobbed her head, lowered his trousers, and took him into her hands. “My late husband smoked tobacco. A habitual pass time he picked up as a youth from his friends and carried it with him to adulthood. He reeked of the smell as did his breath. Eventually, it became a chore to kiss him and even be around him. He quit soon after he proposed marriage to me the first time."

"The first time?" he hissed, his knees buckling.

"You don’t smoke it as much as he did, and I would be even more pleased if you stopped all together."

Hazily, through the fog of the blissful torture she was inflicting upon him, he managed a response. “I had a mere pipe over brandy—oh, God—with my brother after dinner. Could you…would you mind terribly if you did that again?”

Her eyes sparkled and she nodded. “The dark pitch-like substance the plant produces can coat your lungs, yellow your teeth, and may lead to cancer of the lungs, mouth, and throat.”

“Are there not…” He wished to hold onto something for support, so he cupped her breasts, greedily kneading the flesh. “I could have sworn the leaf had medicinal uses.”

“For more external maladies, mind. Tobacco has a chemical in it called nicotine. It is highly addictive—”

She squeaked when he thumbed her nipples, pinched them, and ducked to capture her lips. John kissed her softly. His tongue stroked hers, and she abandoned her ministrations—which was for the best—and pulled away.

“Is everything all…” His question died when he saw her climb upon the bed, her tightly round backside intriguing him. The firm looking globes of creamily pale flesh appeared. She reclined on a pillow and demurely patted the empty space next to her.

Divesting himself further of the rest of his clothes, he joined her side and proceeded to shower at least one of her breasts with his attention.

“As I was saying, my lord,” she began sharply, her fingers unraveling his queue and combing his hair as he suckled her nipple and plied the soft bit of padding at the base above her ribs. “Inhaling tobacco can be most upsetting, not only to your general sense of wellness, but your sexual health, too. I understand this is a tobacco plantation, but I despise the stench it leaves when aflame. Especially on a man I’ve so graciously invited into my bed and into my body. I do adore a healthy gentleman.” She dipped her hand between his legs, bypassing his erection to cradle and massage his balls. “Who frequently bathes, washes his clothes, cleans his teeth, scrubs underneath his fingernails, and isn’t always so gentle when the occasion calls for it.”

It dimly occurred to John that Hermione still wore one stocking, and he had quite recently made plans on what he’d do once her last remaining garment was removed. They were on the bed now and not on the floor by the dying hearth which wasn’t nearly as naughtily unhinged but more practical and comfortable for both parties involved.

His hand left her breast to the curly thatch between her legs, and he felt the dewy, beckoning warmth beneath his inquiring fingers. Her legs spread further, accommodating him in his investigation. His mouth left her breast and wetly nipped his way down her to her marred ribs, the soft and unblemished skin of her stomach, and then hovered above her quim.

John looked up at her. "May I?"

Her already rouged cheeks turned an anxious scarlet. “You are welcome to such liberties if you are so inclined—" 

Knock, knock, knock!

John catapulted himself off her landing, somewhere between the bed and the wall. Hermione scrambled off the mattress, her foot catching in an awkward twisted fold of the sheet, and she crashed nakedly to the floor.

“Bloody fuck,” she muttered, knee and hip smarting, as she hobbled over to her chamber robe. “Who is it?!”

“Me,” huffed a grumpy, prepubescent voice that could only belong to Willie.

“And Dottie!” added a squeal.

“I’m here, too,” said Henry.

“I suppose I am, as well, though I can't for life of me understand why,” said a very bored Adam.

“We want a story! I’ve told them you tell the best ones.” The locked, brass doorknob jiggled and Willie asked, “May we come in, please?”

John popped up from the other side of the bed like a sex-crazed Jack-in-the-box, lips wet and hair askew, glaring malevolently at the door.

“No. No you may not at the moment. I’ll be out shortly.” She snatched both her shift, robe, and other stocking.

John crept over to her and made a feeble attempt of extracting her garments from her. “Tell them it’s late, and they must go to bed."

Hermione frowned forlornly at his half-mass state. “I have four children at my door wanting me. One day, Willie nor any of them will want such things like bedtime stories or cuddles before sleep.”

He scowled at her stubborn and most destructive inability to deny affection to children. “If Adam or Henry want cuddles, dear God, do not oblige them. My eldest nephew has taken a fancy to you, and I’m sure Henry will soon enough.”

Chuckling, she raised up on her tiptoes and pecked his lips. “I’ll escort them back to the nursery and tend to them there. Will…you be here when I get back?” she asked shyly.

“I will,” John said, hiding his reluctance.

"Good."

She padded over to the bedside table and stole a few bites of the maple pudding before going over to her large cedar chest. From the mysterious depths of it, she extracted...the Holy Bible.

"You going to read them scripture?" He choked on his laughter. "A clever way for them to never come knocking at your door for another bedtime story."

"A passage from The Book of Esther the night before a Sunday never hurt anyone, and I won't bombard them strictly with the Good Book. Afterall, church is tomorrow. I'm also not that mean, and it would be a cruel thing to do since I know Willie does enjoy my stories very much."

"What other delightful tale will you tell them tonight?"

"I'm thinking maybe Little Red Riding Hood."

"Everyone knows that story."

"Exactly, but we all grew up with different versions or heard about different ones, anyway. I think I would like to be told a story or two for a change."

"Or five. Will you return to this bedroom at some point tonight?"

"Here." She shuffled over to her desk, gathered up a stack of papers, and then handed the lot to them. "You can browse through the new syllabi I'm working on for each of the children. I'll be back soon."

Hermione carefully slipped out of the door as to not alert her awaiting party of the goings-on in her bedroom.

Inappropriately underdressed to be examining academic outlines too closely, John only skimmed the first page and then the second. "Oroonoko, " he said slowly. Glancing at her desk where he saw Aphra Behn's novel proclaiming The Royal Slave. John set down the syllabi and picked up the the book, only having vaguely heard of the synopsis but had never actually got his hands on a copy to read it. Where on earth did she find one, and what was he to do now with the information? Hal would succumb to fits if...when he found out the new governess planned to teach his children the controversial works of Behn. And it wasn't just her published material that would cause a stir. The woman, God rest her soul, had been a seemingly proud Papist and heavily rumored to have been, not only a Stuart sympathizer, but a spy for King Charles II himself.

About to flip through the book, John aborted that decision when seeing a heading of Dearest Claire on the same sheet of paper Hermione had been writing whence he entered the room.

Encroaching English curiosity, he said to himself while timidly plucking up the letter before delving into the what Hermione had to say to Claire.

Dearest Claire,

We have just arrived to Mount Josiah...

Chapter Text

Dearest Claire,

We have just arrived to Mount Josiah after an expeditious journey following our leave from the Ridge. We left the way of Cross Creek despite the risk of further measle exposure. Thankfully, upon our arrival, John and I concluded the infectious illness had done its worst to the town. We only stayed a night there and what a queer night it was.

The oddness of the evening, I suppose, started when I decided to duck out of my room at the inn for a quick dunk in the creek. To my surprise, I found Lord John sleeping outside my door on a chair. I was not inclined to wake him. As we discussed at your table over tea, he is most opinionated on my going places alone.

I felt much like a disobedient youth, and one who sneaks out of the house whilst her parents are asleep to meet her secret lover. In this case, my secret lover was clean water, and mind, I was not gone long. Within my absence, however, two men got into an altercation with John outside my door. Briefly, they managed to overpower him by wounding his arm, and they entered my room where Willie was asleep in my bed. They went to lay hands upon him and, miraculously, both lost the ability to control their bowels. Because of this, they also lost the ability to do further harm, and Lord John rightfully eradicated the bastards. Our dear, young William was not at all hurt and found the situation jarring, yes, but comedic, as well.

Upon my return, I properly tended to Lord John’s gunshot wound and administered stitches. He was most pleased I was not in the room when the men came. Both he and Willie believed the men were looking for me. I shudder imagining if Willie had been their target all along. Regardless, had I been present, the men would have left me little choice, Claire, for I most certainly would have had to break every single bone in their bodies, starting from their smallest toes and going upwards. If you believe I write this in jest, I do not. I take the protection of my student very seriously, and you aware how much I care for him.

This letter is not only a way to communicate our safe arrival to the estate, but as a thank you for the hospitality and healing you and Mr. Fraser provided for Willie and John whilst we stayed at the Ridge. Though being separated from his father was difficult for Willie, the young man still speaks highly of his adventure with Mr. Fraser. John, and very much I, as well, are so grateful for his courtesy. In thanks, I have a small parcel which I intend to give you in person or pass along to someone trustworthy who will ensure you receive it.

I am also grateful for the jars of peanut butter and jam you sent us off with. Willie fell head over hills in love with the combination. As for John, he is slow to warm up to the peanut butter and found he preferred a thin layer of the paste accompanied with a thick, viscous layer of the purple coneflower honey you gave us.

Here is where I circle back to the forsaken evening at Milne’s Inn in Cross Creek. Not terribly long after I had tended to John’s injury, Mrs. Milne—the widowed owner of the establishment—went into labor and, yes, Claire Fraser, ‘twas I who had to deliver JOHN HERMAN Milne. Measles had either killed off or relocated the local midwives, and the nearest physician was thoroughly inebriated and unfit for such a daunting task. Unfortunately, he died before dawn. Fortunately, Mrs. Milne was not a novice birther, and I simply coached her through a process she had performed twice before.

The child nor mother suffered any complications. However, when you find yourself in Cross Creek again, I would love for you to check in on our dear Annie and her beautifully plump son who, admittedly, caused a clenching in my womb and a hunger in my heart. This ailment has plagued me many times in my adult life. Quite thankfully, I was cured not long after we took our leave. We dined and sheltered that night with a very well-to-do German family. Both Mother and Father and their eight daughters all possessed blonde hair of varying shades, blue eyes, unblemished pale skin, or golden-honeyed complexions. One of these perfectly bred children, approximately two in age, projectile-vomited on my trousers. An older sibling, age eight, child stated, “Don’t bother washing them, ma’am. It’ll take the focus off your hair and the sunspots on your face. Petra did you a favor.”

The eight-year-old and three of her siblings—triplets age of ten—made it their mission that night to sabotage me. The three girls participated in this event because they wanted to impress Willie with their troublemaking skills. The eight-year-old did so because she is one of those wicked souls in the world who relish bestowing problems on people who seem different.

I will not elaborate on the girls’ tomfoolery, but I will say that Willie was not charmed by their behavior. Currently, nothing about the opposite sex impresses him nor intrigues him. The triplets were pretty girls and though they were fairly talented mischief-makers, their actions did nothing but evoke irritation and possessiveness. When I finally tucked him into bed that night before his bedtime story, he made it quite clear only HE was allowed to pull pranks on me.

In lieu of what occurred, the desire for children evaporated. Nevertheless, the last three nights I have dreamt I bore a son of my late husband’s. Naturally, I used to dream of such things all the time. I dreamt of one day giving him a son, a daughter, or maybe both if he asked nicely. Since the obvious happened, that has not been the case recently. The fact these dreams have returned and are even more detailed trouble me. They, quite honestly, hurt me deeply because I know that the only child I will get to hold of my husband’s will be in my dreams.  

John’s thumb touched one of the several swirly, black drops near the passage he just read. Tears. A sense of shame, though only mild, swept through him for invading Hermione’s privacy by reading what was so clearly meant to be read and understood by a woman who had twice been widowed and had the wonderful what-ifs of the future slip out of her hands. True, Jamie had not been dead those many years, but Claire Fraser had not known that.

Childish as it was, however, what John primarily felt was jealousy once again that Hermione communicated so freely with Claire. No, he was not a widowed woman, but he was a widower. Perhaps he had not loved Isobel the way she deserved nor spent enough time with her while she lived. Frankly, he had not been faithful to her. So rarely had he sought pleasure in her bed, and to be frank again, so rarely had she wanted him there. There is hardly a wonder a pregnancy never came their way.

A blushing bride and timid to the core, Isobel possessed only a cursory idea of sex. John who never bedded a virtuous woman had been as gentle with her as he could, yet both were ill-prepared for their matrimonial quarters. Over time and better effort on his part, maybe their intimacy would’ve evolved into one of compatibility, but neither of those precious things had been on their side.

There were many regrets he possessed when it came to his marriage, but he had cared for her, and most importantly, expected and even anticipated creating a legacy with her.

John, too, had dreams—infrequently, mind—of fathering children and though Isobel’s death left a part of him peculiarly numb, the delayed realization a child of his would never swell within her belly devasted him. His late wife’s sweet soul was the epitome of maternal elegance. She was destined for motherhood. In all ways that mattered, she was Willie’s mother, and he was her child. Alas, John knew how much she longed to give Willie a sibling.

The jealousy John held towards Hermione’s and Claire’s communicative friendship wasn’t exactly fair, and he knew it. He’d always encouraged Hermione to be open and honest with him, goading her as gently as possible in sharing the larger pieces of herself she kept hidden. Yet, he’d done this with little reciprocation, keeping himself equally, if not more so, reserved. In Cross Creek, he confessed the origin of his relationship with the Frasers, and she in turn, revealed her scar to him.

If John truly desired to have a deeper and forthright relationship with Hermione, he would have to be the one to instigate the journey. She would sooner write a letter to a woman she knew for less than a week than to express her internal stresses to him, and John would have to endeavor to change that. He’d be a fool to wait for Hermione to expose him to those soft and bruised aspects of herself. He would have to show forth his own fragilities first.

He snorted.

Yes, like hell he would.

Whatever for? To abate his petty resentfulness regarding Claire Fraser?

No. No John must accept Hermione’s reservations because he had his own secrets to protect and would lead to catastrophe if he offered her more. She was already so certain they would come to hate each other soon and could foreseeably be correct. In truth, the more she revealed to him about herself, the more frustrated he grew. He would adore her as he knew her now and hoped she would reciprocate in kind until the time to part ways would inevitably come. They could only be appalling together for so long, after all.

The letter was unfinished. The remnants consisted of Hal, Minnie, and their children coming to Mount Josiah and a partially-written whimsical version of La Belle et la Bete which included lyrical scenes. John, admittedly, found himself rather enjoying the story and was flipping through the papers on Hermione’s desk to see if she had written more and morosely found she had not. Belle had just entered the Beast’s castle to find her father, and John simply wished to know what was going to happen next.

The fact that Hermione was sharing the story with Claire first and not himself or Willie made him bloody irate all over again.

Grumpily, he righted her desk, assuring everything was back in its place and seemingly unruffled, and then ate the remainder of the pudding prior to laying down in Hermione’s bed. He took himself in hand, weighing whether he should or shouldn’t, and then fell asleep before he could make up his mind because he'd been awake for nigh on twenty hours.

Hermione flinched, eyes snapping open. She adjusted her vision in the darkness of the nursery with the help of the oil lamp still burning on the bedside table between the beds of Dottie and Willie.

Damn. She hadn't meant to fall asleep.

Currently, Hermione was leaning upright on Dottie's bed. Said child slumped halfway atop of her.

Gingerly, as if handling a persnickety bomb, Hermione shifted from under Dottie's dead weight and tucked the child into her bed. Before leaving, she kissed the foreheads of the children—even Henry and Adam. Willie was her last stop. She righted his sheets and saw his secret, Catholic-like cross peeking out from the collar of his night sark, so she adjusted that, as well. Clenched in his fist was his engraved wooden snake.

"You're safe, my darling," she whispered into his ear. "Have wonderful dreams."

Blowing out the lamp, she closed the door and padded down the hallway to her bedroom. Inside, she found the maple pudding gone and John asleep in her bed. Right hand dwelling over his pelvis area.

Had he fallen asleep wanking while waiting for her?

Examining the situation, Hermione found no evidence of his release and decided she wouldn't wake him. Removing her shift and stockings, she joined him in bed. She scooched closer to him. The stink of tobacco had faded somewhat, but the brandy and the telling scent of maple pudding remained strong.

Hermione shifted onto her side and kissed John’s bare shoulder before closing her eyes and drifting off, pushing away the quaking feeling in her stomach. For she had not so intimately and nakedly laid next to man who wasn't Draco in ten years.

"Exodus 20:14", she heard her mother say, though it really was far too late.

"I know, Mummy. I'm sorry. I said I wouldn't, and I did. I am now ten for ten."

Hermione dreamed she was the little red riding hood scouring the backwoods of North Carolina, a basket full of odds and ends slung carelessly on the crook of her arm. Various objects spilled out of the basket, falling to the mossy earth. Some of them were Time-Turners, and Hermione’s clumsily stepped on all of them. The delicate glass crunched beneath her naked, dirty feet.

As she tried to be more careful, scrolls poured out of the basket, one of them uncurling for several feet. Stooping down, she attempted to pick up the scroll, yet the parchment wasn’t parchment but a concrete pathway awash with important looking words. Blood from her feet pooled onto the etched slabs, filling in the loopy grooves.

For reasons beyond comprehension, Hermione knew what the words were on the pathway. It was the marriage contract she signed after she had eloped with Draco. Lucius and Narcissa had approached them, indicating that if she signed it, they would accept her as a part of the family and reinstate Draco as sole heir of the Malfoy fortune. Her husband would not have to wait until his father’s death to access his accounts once again at Gringotts.

Hermione pressed the flat of her hands on the gored pathway. Even in her dreaming state, she recalled all she had read and ultimately agreed to. Both she and Draco eventually signed the contract in front of their own solicitor and in front of Lucius’s and Narcissa's.

Knowing what she must do next, Hermione stood and started walking along the path. After several steps, her hands came to her stomach, her middle abnormally round. She had the impression she must lay down and spread her legs. Once she was in position, Claire Fraser stomped onto the scene in shiny red stilettos and adorned in a scarce, naughty nurse uniform.

“I told you not to get fat,” chided Claire. The woman knelt and shoved one arm beneath Hermione’s red cloak and then promptly retracted like she was a magician extracting a rabbit from a hat. But instead of a rabbit, it was an upside-down, pink-faced baby dressed in a miniaturized Hogwarts uniform of the Hufflepuff variety.

Hermione stared at hideous, mustard yellow shade of the tie and then clocked to Claire. “That is not mine.”

“We’ll keep her wi’ us then,” said Jamie Fraser, like he was absolutely exhausted. He trotted up beside Claire, perched stiffly on a thestral. He was in a body cast and only his face was visible. “Och, she’s a braw lassie. We’ll be startin’ her on small beer ‘fore ye ken it.”

Hermione pursed her lips at the shiny Mary Jane shoes and how the black tights encased the baby’s fat, little legs. She tilted her head, totally unconcerned when the quiet, upside-down baby began sprouting thick brown curls from her formerly bald head. Grabbing her from Claire’s careless grasp, Hermione sprinted further up the pathway from the two of them.

Her surroundings changed, and Hermione found herself in the Forest of Dean. Up ahead at the end of the path, she saw a tent and the Hufflepuff child was no longer in her arms but in a modern pram. She pushed it up to the tent and entered through the flaps and saw Lucius Malfoy playing a game of chess with Ronald Weasley.

Her dead father-in-law was losing.

“Check mate,” declared Ron. “Rotten luck. We can go again.”

“Remember I gave you a way out, Miss Granger,” said Lucius, ignoring his opponent and resetting the board with a wave of wand. “If you should have ever found yourself in need of one.”

For the second time, Hermione touched her stomach, once again finding it comically expanded. She went over to one of the bunks within the tent and laid down, legs spread. Blaise Zabini rolled into the tent on rainbow roller skates, eagerly thrusting both arms beneath her red cloak, and bringing out another pink-faced baby. This one familiar—she had seen him before many times— and decidedly sideways. He was chunky, blond, wailing like a tortured banshee, and dressed in a pumpkin costume.

“He doesn’t look a thing like me, Granger,” Blaise griped and then peered into the pram. “And neither does she. What do you have to say for yourself, you luscious little slag?”       

Behind Blaise’s disapproving form, vapors of black took shape, and Fenrir Greyback formed. He peered into the pram, licked his teeth, and lunged for the little girl.

Hermione lunged for him, Claire’s knitting needles from the Ridge appearing in her clenched fists. She tackled Greyback to the ground. The makeshift, silver weapons came down repeatedly on Greyback’s contortedly monstrous face. Gleefully and perhaps with a touch of sadistic pleasure, Hermione made ground hamburger out of his skull.

Once Greyback was sufficiently dead, she got up and went over to the pram and lifted out her curly-haired, Hufflepuff baby, bringing her to one shoulder. She then gestured to Blaise with a “give him over” flick of her fingers.

Two babies snuggled protectively to her bosom, she let out a stifled screech when one of them—the pumpkin one—was ripped from her by an invisible force.

Hermione’s eyes popped open and saw John’s shadow looming close beside her.

“You stole my pillows, Hermione,” he said in an overly placating tone. “Right from under my head, no less. Before that, you attempted to beat my face in with all your strength. When you successfully relieved me of the items, you laid back down and clutched them to your chest.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

Still caught between dreamland and consciousness, she rubbed her eyes and yawned out, “I thought you were a werewolf trying to eat my baby. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, well, honest mistake. It happens all the time.”

Hermione’s sighed in amusement. “I really am sorry, John.”

“Come here, my dear. You’re clearly troubled.” He cupped the side of her face, beckoning her closer. Their lips met sweetly in the dark.

John made work to chase away her strange, troubling dream. He entangled his fingers into her hair, deepening their kiss and allowing his intentions to be known to her. She sighed into his mouth, and he could feel her body and even her mind softening. He guided her to his lap, his cock pressing into her belly. He sensed her trying to take ahold of him to which he swiftly intercepted her mission. Releasing her mouth, he kissed the knuckles of her curious hand and then skimmed his lips up her arm. When the round, exterior of her breast met his cheek, he latched onto her nipple. Gasping in pleasure, her back arched for him, and she gripped the back of his head.

“I want you inside me,” she whimpered.

Her breast fell from his lips, but he kept close. “Not just yet,” he whispered into her skin and then tilted to lick her other nipple. He lightly petted the curls between her legs, wordlessly asking permission and when she nodded, he journeyed lower.

Experimentally, John swirled the tip of his thumb around her nub, and she exhaled a shaky, pleased breath. Two fingers slid further down and delved deeply into a cavern of slippery warmth, and she possessively attacked his mouth. Her quim readily accepted the intrusion. With steady and searching strokes, he found the precise textured location that had her fluttering in moments.

John felt the strained quivering of her thighs. He wheedled her down to the mattress, sightlessly mapping her body with his lips, beyond tempted to taste of her nectar. Nevertheless, his cock refused to be ignored a moment longer. When he reached her lips, he made a conscious decision to enter her slowly lest he lose all decorum and rut into her like a mindless mammal who caught the whiff of his mate’s heated state.

The imagery had him appreciative of Hermione’s less than fertile womb. He'd need not worry his seed taking root. The way she spoke to Louisa at tea was all talk to scandalize the old woman. He knew her well enough to be aware her late husband may've had his own struggles, but John understood Hermione did not bleed regularly. Two months had come and gone, and he could not recall a single moment she attempted to discreetly disappear throughout the days with her special, cotton-filled coin purse. The topic of children had been breached at the Ridge when he tried to discourage her away from living in sin with a man in case she became with child. Her utter lack of concern about conceiving out of wedlock told John she hadn't any worry in the world about getting with child.

Those smooth quivering thighs from before rose to languidly cradle John’s hips, encouraging him to keep a syrupy pace. Her hips tilted upwards, and his strokes deepened. Their mouths found one another, and he was reminded of the unbelievably wicked tricks hers was capable of. Her fingernails scratched at his shoulder blades, causing shivers to run up his spine. Her hands trekked further down, gently palming his backside.

“Oh, I do like your bum,” she gasped out whilst the quaking and flexing of her inner walls seemed to take them both by surprise. She gave one of his cheeks a startling, but not an entirely unwelcome smack. His thrusts stuttered, and he poured his release into her with a chuckling groan.

The two of them lay there panting for a short while. John sensed Hermione nod off, and he rolled off her to give her room to breathe. She jolted awake, panting sharply. He watched her shadowy figure in lust-hazed confusion as she scrambled off the bed. She darted from the fireplace, poking a stick into the dying embers, and bringing the glowing instrument to her desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh…well…” The oil lamp ignited on her desk from her hot stick, the sparse light bathing that side of the room in a soft, fuzzy glow. “Not often, but occasionally, I will journalize my dreams.”

“I take it you think they have meaning then?”

“Generally, no,” she replied, lifting the lid of her chest and fishing out a canvas bound book. She flipped through the pages, coming to a blank one, and then sat down at her desk. Dipping her quill into an inkwell, she started writing in a fervent manner. “However, I do think our subconscious does try speaking to us sometimes at our most vulnerable which is when we sleep.”

“You believe your mind is warning you that a werewolf will eat your baby should you have one?”

“Most of what I dreamt was lunacy at its finest. I’m only taking note of what I think is important.”

“Alas, a violent, mythical creature making a meal of your offspring is not.”

Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “That ugly bastard shows up in my dreams every now and then, and I kill him every time he does.”

“He’s a repeating character. Surely, he represents something vital, and your subconscious is trying to tell you what it is.”

“I know what it is, and he's not who I'm concerned about just now.” She gently blew on ink to quicken the drying and then carefully closed the journal before making a stop at the wash basin to wash between her legs. “And this time I dispatched him with a set of Claire Fraser’s knitting needles.”

“Between you and I, that is likely the most productive thing those needles will ever accomplish.” Ruefully, John watched Hermione don a shift, and she blew out the lamp before rejoining him in bed.

“You’re probably right about that,” she murmured sleepily.

“Hermione…”

Her hand caressed his jawline and cheek. “You have to go?”

“Morning approaches. The upheaval that would occur if we were to be discovered. Imagine my brother banging down your door and finding me devouring my morning breakfast in your bed.”

Hermione made an adorable choking noise. “Your morning breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she cleared her throat while her thumb traced his lips, “first of all, I see no reason why the Duke of Pardloe would find it necessary to barge into my room uninvited. Secondly—”

“You would be screaming my name. That is why.”

“Oh, please. More like you would be screaming mine. I don’t particularly mind a bit of meaty sausage in the morning.” She palmed him, taking care not to overexcite his spent penis. “Or for lunch, tea, or dinner.”

John felt his whole body flush, and held her close to him, her head resting on his chest. “What you did yesterday, Hermione, I will never ask that of you.”

“I know,” she said in a hushed tone, laying a tender kiss on his breastbone. “But I wanted to. The way your face looked when I was pleasing you, I loved it. I’m going to do it again for you soon enough, and you’re going to finish in my mouth.”

John wondered what kind of salacious heathenry Hermione and her late husband participated in. He also wondered how sick the poor man must’ve been to finally seek comfort in the reaper rather than fight in favor for a life of pruriency with his pretty and astonishingly skilled wife.

Fatigue started to creep into John’s conscious, and he reluctantly left Hermione’s bedroom and was sure to give a stiff, yet polite nod at Caroline on the staircase’s landing who was lighting the lamps on the wall.

“Lord John,” she greeted, ducking her head.

“Good morning,” he bade.

“Mmmhmm, you, too.”

Chapter Text

Rubbing the tired from her eyes and yawning, Hermione ignited a candle with a flick of her finger and fetched the notes Claire gifted her at the Ridge. In the tidy scrawl of Dr. Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser's, the tenth and very last square leaflet read:

To avoid pregnancy when consistently participating in sexual activity, acquire an exceedingly clean sponge of variable size. Dip the sponge in vinegar and insert into the vaginal canal before coitus. Remove and clean thoroughly after use as to avoid toxic shock syndrome. You "can" apply vinegar directly into the vaginal canal by use of douching—don’t do this, Hermione, unless you have no other choice. Douching may lead to infection and further irritation of open wounds should you have any.

Lemons may also be of use. Wash one well and cut it in half. Scoop out most of the pulp, and lodge cervix-deep in the vaginal canal. The rind tip should face up and the semi-hallowed space should face down. This will act as a barrier for sperm and the citrus’s acidity a spermicide, but you’ll have a hell of time trying to remove it if you don’t attach a clean piece of twine to the rind. There's also risk of pieces breaking off and getting wedged in places it has no business being, so do be careful, Hermione. The same can be said for the sponge, as well. Assure the entirety of whatever you put inside yourself is accounted for when you remove it.

Thistle tea, I have heard from the Indian women, might be an option. I am not entirely sold on this, though, and would not suggest this as a method of avoiding pregnancy.

I caution you to not ask around regarding other methods of contraception. I know you are not foolish enough to ask any of the idiots masquerading as healers and physicians, but I can imagine you feeling safe in asking Indian, slave women, and maybe even prostitutes. Do not do this. They do not know you, and you don’t know them. This is not an issue of racism and class prejudice but of trust. Until you have done something to earn theirs, they will have no reason to aid you. They could quite possibly and purposefully lead you, not only astray, but into danger.

With love and all my motherly worry,

Claire.

Post Scriptum,

For God’s sake, sweetheart, just be a good girl and don’t have sex. Avoid being alone with dodgy men. Jamie would never forgive himself or John if he received word that you were harmed. He would think it was his fault for not keeping you here at the Ridge and also blame John for not protecting you.

Young Ian and our good friend John Quincy Meyers often travel through Virginia. Jamie and I will insist they stop and see all is well with you in Lynchburg early next year. If, by then, you have changed your mind and wish to return to the Ridge, Young Ian will escort you back here. The journey won’t be pleasant, given we will be well into winter, but Ian will keep you safe, fed, and well cared for.

Clasping her hands together in an almost-prayer fashion, Hermione rubbed her forehead with the sides of her palms, dreading to perform the uncertain and potentially dangerous task of douching without a wand. At the moment, she hadn’t vinegar, a sponge, nor an actual douche. What she did have were her fingers and the ability to spout clean water from them. The method’s results were laughably uncertain but what else could she do?

Nothing?

Would it even matter?

Having lived a life of commodious comfort for close to a decade where she didn't need to worry about contraception, she thought nothing of it with her first go with John. On their second romp...yes.

Hermione blushed in shame.

Yes, she had thought about it. Fresh from latest dream of birthing two children, she had considered the consequences. And even so, she grasped John's perfect bottom and welcomingly lifted her hips to receive his load.  

God, she was such a lust-stricken fool!

What were the odds, though, of falling pregnant?

Counting backwards, Hermione collided into the glum conclusion that thirteen days ago, she started her last period.

Which meant she may very well be ovulating.

Twenty or maybe twenty-five percent were the chances of her conceiving. Hermione was thirty-one and if she was a true Muggle, her best eggs would’ve already dropped out of the coop. A witch’s female anatomy traditionally had a longer biological clock by about ten or so years, borne out of magic’s evolutionary desire to maintain and even boost the population. A woman of magic could conceive well into her late forties without much difficulty or medical assistance, but yes, matters like birthing a Squib or a child with Down Syndrome remained a risk.

On an adjacent note, however, not all witches of certain ages were ripe for a sperm’s taking. Factors having to do with family history, medical history, diet, etc. expectedly played their parts, as well.

Standing to stretch, she lifted her arms high above her head and twisted the spine to erase the lethargy from her bones. Her hands eventually lowered and settled on her stomach and reflected on her kooky dream and the unfamiliar child that Claire Fraser extracted from beneath her Red Riding Hood cloak.

A baby girl.

She’d been…a Hufflepuff.

Hermione slide-glared over to her rumpled, empty bed and imagined the naked man responsible for that possibility. A product of hers and Draco’s would've never made the cut as a honey badger. Unless their child was innately born with the House’s particular traits, she and her husband were not the type of parents who would naturally instill attributes such as patience, a warm sense of trust, and debilitating kindness. Their offspring would have been perfect, but they would have not been sweet because their parents weren’t.

Lord John…was sweet.

“No,” Hermione said to the empty bed, marching to the side of the mattress to slide the chamber pot out from under it. “No, I am not pregnant, nor will I be. It was just a dream, and dreams are mostly utter tosh.”

When she had written down aspects of her dream, she refused to report about the curly-haired baby girl with chunky legs. Her intention was to journalize other, more important details. Details she purposefully overlooked these last several months because why would she even consider having Draco’s child to get out of her marriage to him? That would be a horrible decision, for both herself and the baby.

“My spoiled and fat, little prince, I didn’t really want you. I only had you, so I wouldn’t have to remain married to your psycho father. Your dead grandfather, despite his numerous shortcomings, had enough insight to know his son’s marriage to me would sour in time. But he also took into consideration your psycho father wouldn’t have a child—as in carry on the Malfoy lineage—with anyone but myself. And despite your father being a psycho, he loves me in his own twisted, unhealthy way and knows I own his balls.”

To err on the side of caution in case Draco's planned vasectomy-reversal failed,  he harvested samples and signed over his posterity to Hermione to keep them out of reach from his parents. She first stowed away the samples at St. Mungo's, but then Lucius and Narcissa made an near-successful attempt stealing the tubes. In lieu of that, Hermione relocated his potential posterity to a Muggle facility in Minnesota, USA. That was five years ago and last Hermione knew, Narcissa was still doling out a ridiculous amount of money to investigators. Their job was to find where her misbehaving son and his low-birth wife put her grandbabies.  

The same small part of Hermione—conniving and ambitiously wicked—touted that with Draco stowed away in Azkaban or locked up in the psych ward at St. Mungo’s for his crime against her, having his child would make her manager of the Malfoy estates and certain Black ones, as well. Hermione wasn’t interested in the money, but the social and political circles she’d be enjoined into. Lucius lost all his partisanship and influence over the Wizengamot following the war. On an international level, he did not. Before his death, he still had a weighty hand in various governments around the world. Draco inherited his father’s position and used it for bettering the welfare of Muggle-Borns and magical creatures in those countries. He did this because he loved her and she owned, not only his balls, but his soul. And it was kind of the right the thing to do, anyway.

Removing her shift to prevent messy drippings, Hermione washed her hands thoroughly with soap and water from her ewer and awkwardly squatted over the porcelain chamber pot with two fingers wedged in her vagina. She was not performing any sexual act, just removing evidence of such shenanigans, therefore; the naughty use of quim had to be replaced by a more biologically appropriate term.

Closing her eyes, she envisioned uncomfortably warm water. Not hot and not even boiling hot. But that specific temperature which is almost too much but still kind of good at the same time. Like stepping into a bubbling jacuzzi after swimming in an unheated pool for thirty minutes.

You’ve waited too long. It’s been almost an hour since you and John did the thing, said a voice in the back of her mind which sounded a lot like Ginny.

Shush, you.

Hissing through her teeth and then exhaling in a relaxed fashion, a gush of water soaked her hand and splattered into the chamber pot. And while she was there, she determined she might as well do a little peeing, as well.

Knock, knock, knock!

Hermione frowned at the door and then at the slice of early morning dawn shining out from beneath the heavy drapes over her window. The knocking wasn’t aggressive nor urgent, so it was most likely one of the Bobwhite ladies coming to help her dress for church.

“Yes?” she called, rising to wipe her inner thighs with a cloth.

“It’s Abigail, ma’am. I’m here to ready you for the day.”

“Meh!”  She hadn’t attended church in over fourteen years—with exception to a handful of weddings, baptisms, and christenings—and had no desire to break that streak in favor of waltzing into a colonial, Anglican chapel to hear a heretic’s sermon.

Abigail softly giggled. “I’ve also brought you coffee. Mama said you might be tired this morning.”

Hermione’s frown deepened, and she wriggled into a clean rail. What did Caroline know of it?

Flicking a hand at the hearth, the near-dead embers ignited, and she opened the door. Abigail, a near copy of her older sister but a couple of inches shorter and cutely plumper, came bustling inside holding a cup and saucer. Slung precariously over one of her arms was most certainly not a new set of stays.

“What is that?” asked Hermione as Abigail set down the cup on her desk.

The girl gestured to the white, starchily stiff garment. “Oh, this? It’s from Her Grace. She’s lending you one of her corsets today since it became known you don’t have one. It's a newer design from Versailles.”

It became known? Did the bloody Virginia Gazette post a bloody article about it?

“For church?” balked Hermione, scandalized. “I’m going to go hear about misogynistic Bible bother and the sacred and celestial interest in the mortal longevity of King George, not appearing at French Court to charm King bloody Louis.”

“Charlotte said you’re a funny one, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind me saying,” Abigail shyly said through a graceful smile.  

“No,” Hermione said, grumbling. “It’s best I try to make light of things. If I don’t, I’ll most certainly will drown in despair.”

Abigail threw a quick and glancing look over her shoulder at Hermione. The older woman cleared her throat and avoided eye contact, her stomach rolling in guilt.

“I have much to be grateful for, I know. Forgive me. I-I have very little room to complain if any,” Hermione added slowly, albeit lamely. Her life certainly would have transitioned most horribly from 2010 to 1768 had she been born a darker shade.

“The good Lord has blessed you, ma’am. Arms up,” ordered Abigail, sighing. "Drink up, ma'am. I’ll be back to do up those laces. Her Grace also wants to lend you one of her dresses.”

“How gracious of her,” Hermione muttered, sitting down at her desk to sip at the hot beverage. She licked her lips, savoring the bitter and undoubtedly Jamaican coffee which had assuredly been cultivated by slaves, damn it all.

Abigail left with the chamber pot and soon returned, arms holding a Cinderella blue, white-lace embroidered dress. As the young woman tightened the laces of the corset, Hermione eyed the ensemble in begrudging interest. A girly part of her stupidly giddy in anticipation.

But, honestly! Would she look like princess when all was said and done? Because if she didn’t, then what was even the point?

Would John like it?

Meh, she repeated, this time internally. If he did, he did. If not, no big deal. He could take it off her in due time if he was so inclined. Draco, too, preferred her birthday suit as had Ron. What they preferred removing from her person varied. Draco liked removing lingerie and satiny dresses. Ron liked removing her skin tights jeans and cheeky, boxer underwear.

Much to Hermione’s surprise, Abigail fashioned her hair into a partial updo, secured in place by neatly woven braids and a hair comb while the lower half of her hair remained heavily unbound at her midback.

"There. You look...well..." The girl nodded stiffly. "You don't look ugly, ma'am, that's for sure."

"Y-You're done?" Hermione stammered, touching her loose tendrils and shocked to see Abigail making her exit out of the room like she had better things to do with her time. "But my hair. It's...I can't go into church like this! I need to wear a bonnet or cap, at least. Don't I?"

If Hermione was staying inside the estate or working on a humble farm in the backwoods, she'd welcome the more laxed and free-flowing tone Abigail dealt her. "I'll be thrown out of the chapel and labeled a harlot, Abigail! Abigail, you get back here," hissed Hermione. "Bloody hell, I'll be thrown out of the carriage on the way there by His Grace."  

"Both Her Grace and Lady Dunsany instructed me to do exactly as I did, and I will not have you make a liar out of me, ma'am, so you leave your head as is and go down for breakfast. His Grace hasn't met you yet, so you best not keep him waiting. He's downstairs with his lordship right now talking about you."

"Why? What are they saying?"

Abigail shrugged one shoulder and ducked out of the room as Willie ducked in, Dottie on his heels. They were a blur of scrubbed faces, pressed frocks, clean stockings, and loopy ribbons.

“I told Dottie about your version of Princess & the Frog, and she wants to hear that tonight,” said Willie.

Dottie bobbed her blonde head. “Please, please, please, please, please!” she begged, the last please coming out as more of an ironic and familiar growl.

“You know, Willie,” Hermione started gently, brows arching in chastisement, “throwing yourself into a lady’s bed chambers without permission to enter is most ungentlemanly.”

The boy blushed but stuck out his chin. “You don’t count, Madam.”

“I don’t?”

“Yes, she does.” Dottie put her tiny hands on her waist, glaring at Willie.

“You came in, too, so don’t give me any of that,” Willie countered.

“I’m a lady, myself. The rules are different for me."

"No, they're not."

"Anyway,” she said, blue eyes rolling dramatically. “Madam Christakos, may I share a pew with you?”

“I see no reason why you can’t, but won’t you want to sit next to your mum?”

Her eyes rolled again, and she stuck out her tongue in distaste. “She and Daddy do nothing but hold and kiss each other’s hands the entire time. It’s embarrassing and improper, but Mummy says it’s all right to do because they’re married and love each other. She also says church is one of the few times Daddy has to sit and stay there by her like a well-behaved little boy without having to immediately run off to solve other little boys’ problems.”

“Your mother is correct. By the way, have both of you cleaned your teeth yet this morning?”

Dottie nodded and Willie did so hesitantly. Hermione arched her brow at him, and he huffed, stomping out of her room to hopefully abide her.

“Do you think you’ll meet your new husband today?” chirped Dottie, making a silly face in the mirror of her vanity.

“Maybe. If you spot a frog with a crown, let me know.”

Dottie giggled and then openly gaped, reaching out her finger to touch Hermione’s ear. Her pink fingertip experimentally poked the silver loop embedded into her lobe and then the small and silver, star-shaped stud above it. “You have two piercings, Madam. My parents haven’t decided yet if I can get mine pierced when I get older. Mummy has hers pierced, but she’s always wearing bonnets or has her hair too much in the way to see her earrings. Daddy has bought her loads of pearl ones with matching necklaces. Do you have pearls?”

Hermione chuckled. “I did once. I had all sorts of fancy, sparkly trinkets I came into when I married my late husband, but there were only a few I really liked.”

“Which ones were those?”

She touched her wedding ring. “This, obviously. And, well, I did have a diadem. I would wear it once a year.”

Dottie gasped, her blue eyes lit in wonderment. “For Christmas?”

“…yes…” Hermione lied. Beltane. The Malfoys threw the most epic of Beltane bashes, and she would shove the diadem atop her riotous curls and frolic around the whimsical woods of Wiltshire like a nymph, partially dressed in draping gossamer while Draco hunted her with single-minded intent. There were years she made the search easy on him and other times, not so much. “It was made of gold and had vines, leaves, and serpents. With emeralds—”

“Serpents?”

“Uh huh.”

“That doesn't sound very Christmas-like,” she said, suspicious.

“I also had another sort of crown which I loved, but I never got to really wear it. Once or twice, when I would visit my grandmother, I would sneak into her room and put on her wedding crown and imagine the day I would get to wear it. My grandmother said she would pass it onto me for my marriage.”

Dottie frowned. “But you got married. How come you didn’t get to wear it if you got married?”

Dipping her quill into in the inkwell, Hermione turned over one of the many scratch pieces of paper littering her desk and drew a crude sketch from memory. “The crown is called a stefana. My husband had my diadem designed similarly to my grandmother’s stefana since I didn’t get to wear hers. Hers, too, was made of gold. It had vines and leaves. It did not have snakes, mind. You see, Dottie, when my husband and I married, we went against our parents’ wishes. We eloped—”

“How romantic!”

“Maybe,” Hermione said, sort of grimacing. “At least I thought so at the time. Anyway, when I expressed to my parents I wanted to marry him, my mother did not approve. She told my grandmother her concerns, and she didn’t either. The stefana that was promised to be mine was given to a cousin of mine. Lysandra is...was her name.”

Lovely Lesbian Lysandra.

Who had been briefly engaged to a man at one point in time but never married him. And with Lysandra’s fatal breast cancer diagnosis, the stefana would likely go to her daughter who’d be raised the remainder of her childhood by her other mum, an ambivalent observer of the Jewish faith one day and a hostile atheist on another. Which was perfectly fine, but it meant the odds of little Lilith growing up to wear it for her own wedding were very slim.

“Did she at least look pretty in it?”

Hermione sighed. “Lysandra never married and probably won’t have the chance. She was very ill when I left home.”

“That’s not fair!” Dottie folded her arms. “When you get married again, you should send a letter to your family. Tell them you’re marrying a really good, rich man who’s going to take care of you, and you will have lots of babies with him. They will be so happy for you, they’ll have to send you the stefana.”

“You know what, Dottie?” Hermione finished the drawing and set down the quill. “What an excellent idea. But my parents are particular. They would want the best for me before sending me Granny’s stefana. I can’t settle on just any really good, rich man who will take care of me and give me lots of babies.”

The little girl nodded seriously. “And you should love him, too. Like how my mummy and daddy love each other.” She made a disheartened face. “Did you know that not all married people love each other?”

“It is unfortunate.” In the world that was the 18^th century, people—regardless of class—so very rarely had the opportunity or the means to marry for a luxurious concept like love.

“But that’s so sad. Do your parents love each other?”

Hermione laughed. “Funnily enough, before there was me eloping with my husband, there was my mum. She, too, married someone her parents didn’t approve of.”

Her religious, Greek grandparents had not been impressed at all with pre-med Daniel Hugo Granger whose beliefs centered around a structured teatime, a pint at the pub precisely at 5:30 in the evening, studying like a madman on Saturdays, football on Sundays, and attempting to fornicate with Helena Iris Christakos in his general spare time.

Attempting being the key factor.

Her mother had been a very good girl, indeed.

Dottie primly patted at the pleats of her dress. “Daddy would be most upset if you ran off with someone ill-suited like my last governess, and I really hope you don’t either. You don’t seem like my other governesses at all. Most of them were either mean old spinsters or incomprehensibly daft.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. If they were governesses, then they must’ve had adequate education.”

Popping up one shoulder in shrug, Dottie nodded solemnly. “You would think so. Many of them, if ever in the presence of a seemingly marriageable male, would sink into a farse of utter stupidity.” She lifted her chin. “I believe a woman should never have to lower her intelligence to attract attention from anyone, most importantly a man. A true gentleman will value a female of intellect and seek one as a lifelong mate, for what use is a dimwitted woman if she is to maintain a safe and secure home for her husband and children? She, herself, will construct a dimwitted household and equally beget dimwitted children. How on earth is humanity supposed to thrive when ladies out there are being purposefully dumb while men come by it so naturally?”

“Did your…mother instill in you this belief?” Hermione asked. Doubtful of the answer being yes.

“Mummy has said men are inheritably helpless creatures, and Uncle John taught me to never downplay my wit or brilliance for the sake of them. Mummy agrees with that…to an extent.” Her blue eye sparkled coyly. “She says playing daft has its perks on occasion. People, regardless of sex, tend to tell you all sorts of juicy details if they believe you haven’t a functioning brain. I do this all the time with my brothers and Willie. But mostly, I do this with my eldest brother.”

“Adam?”

She shook her head no. “Benjamin. He’s much older than the lot of us and amid my presence, he acts and speaks freely when I invite him to join my dollies and stuffed horses for tea in the nursery. Alas, he still thinks of me as a runny-nose pest who persistently embarrasses him in front of pretty girls.” The corner of her lip curled upwards. “I confess to both, though my airways have been remarkably clear for a while now.”

“You know what, Dottie?” Hermione said, cupping the girl’s deceivingly angelic face and imaging Draco kneeling down before her to slip a green and silver school tie around her neck. “I think if my late husband and I had been blessed with a daughter, she would have been so much like you.” She stood up and offered her hand to her, and Dottie took it. “I think you and I are going to be very special friends.”

The little girl squeezed her hands, grinning up at her. “Do you like tea parties?”

The two of them practically skipped out of the room and down the hall. “I love tea parties, and I love even more to spill tea at them. Not mine. Heaven’s no. Someone else’s.”

“Naturally.”

“May I ask which one of your dollies is in the know of all matters?”

“Oh, well,” started Dottie, sighing, “I loathe to tell you they, nor Miss Mare, speak to me that much anymore. They’ve become censored and even hushed. I ask them questions, and they just stare at me queerly. Their appetites have waned, as well, as has their thirst for a drop of sweetened and milky pekoe. The one who knew everything about everyone, though, was Miss Beatrice. I fear my favorite guests have gotten older. Teatime in the nursery doesn’t excite them as much it used to, nor me I suppose. The quietness irks me greatly”

“Hm.” Hermione shuffled down the stairs. “I shan’t forget when my Miss Titania ceased talking to me. I was about your age. The cheek of these dolls, I swear. I foresee you will have no other choice but to attend my tea parties.”

“Really?” Dottie gasped, features lighting up.

“Lessons end at three. You and I will take an hour for ourselves afterwards on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Her Grace will likely want us to attend teatime with her and Lady Dunsany the other days.”

“Mummy’s taking you to purchase fabric and get measured for gowns after lessons tomorrow. She says I can’t come, but if you say I can, maybe she’ll let me.”

“What a good idea. It’ll be a ladies-only afternoon. No bothersome boys allowed. Besides, you’ll probably need new dresses, too.”

“Daddy says I have too many.”

Hermione stopped, giving Dottie a stern look. “Now I need you to listen very carefully to what I have to say, my lady. There are four things in this wretched world a woman—regardless of age, class, race, and religion—cannot have too much of: books, chocolate, shoes, and dresses.”

Dottie arched a dark blonde brow. “In that order?”

“Yes.”

They entered the dining hall where Lord John and who must be his brother, the Duke of Pardloe, were already tucking into smoked kippers, soft boiled eggs, buttery toast, and apple slices.

Undoubtedly, Harold and John Grey were brothers. Both shared the same light blue eyes and fine, aristocratic bone structure. However, the duke appeared partial to wigs whereas John outwardly kept to his own brownish-blond queue. John’s features were also somewhat softer and prettier so to speak. Lashes longer and lips fuller.

When his gaze met hers, she managed to maintain a professional façade and revealed nothing beyond a pleasant smile. Still, her stomach somersaulted upwards into her chest cavity like she was fifteen again and the most sought-after boy in school told her in broken English how pretty he believed her to be and how he wanted to escort her to the Yule Ball.

Stupid, she called herself and willed her emotions to remain ambivalent as her body betrayed her by pooling warmth low in her belly.

“Madam Christakos, how charming you look,” John told her, the careful stare of his eyes turning heated for a split second before reverting to polite and platonic pleasantness. “I trust you slept well and recovered fully from our arduous journey. May I introduce you to my brother, Harold, the Duke of Pardloe?”

The two men stood and partially bowed, the duke making a strangled sound and broke into a mild coughing fit. Hermione assumed the bowing would not have happened if the younger girl had waltzed into breakfast alone. Maybe John would have for how much he clearly adored his niece who bounded up to him with the expectation of being praised for simply existing.

“Good morning, my sunshine,” he greeted excitedly, picking her up to kiss her cheek. “Oh, how lovely you look this Sunday. You will be the most beautiful lady in chapel. I have something for you to take in case it gets too warm.”

Beside his plate was a gold-foiled, pleated fan he must’ve purchased in Hispaniola. John spread it open to display the hand-painted, pale lavender swans elegantly floating upon a brook in a wooded scene.

“It’s beautiful, Uncle! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck and gifting him a gigantic kiss on the cheek in return.

Hermione awkwardly met eyes with John’s brother across the table. Remembering herself, she cleared her throat and hastily curtseyed. “Your Grace, it is an honor and pleasure to make your acquaintance. I thank you for the privilege and trust you've given me to teach your children. Lady Dorthea is a delight, and I imagine her brothers are equally so.”

The duke chuckled, circling the table to stand in front of her. “I’m afraid you best not hold your breath on that, Madam. I confess they often require a firm hand.” He took her hand, bowed, and kissed the back of it. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

She curtseyed accordingly again. Kindly, he pulled out her chair and needlessly helped her sit on it. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

For much of Hermione’s breakfasting, John and Hal had their heads close together, muttering quietly to each other. When she was cutting into her spiced apples, Hal detached his forehead from his younger brother’s and smiled conversationally at her. “Have you attended an Anglican service before, Madam Christakos?”

Dabbing her lips, Hermione lowered her napkin and swallowed, giving herself a cushiony space of time to answer. Hermione Granger, indeed, attended Anglican services a handful of times. Not typical Sunday services but summer church weddings for her paternal cousins in Manchester. Christenings of shiny, new batches of Granger babies in Devon. Madam Christakos, on the other hand…

“Forgive me, I have not.”

“Has my brother not invited you since you’ve been in his employment?”

“Your brother has been most respectful of my faith,” she replied, “and did not wish to impose his own upon me. In truth, I felt much without God after the passing of my husband and did not desire to seek comfort in any one of His houses. I felt betrayed by Him, but…” Hermione inhaled deeply and summoned the sturdy-Christian soul of her mum, “perhaps it’s time to accept that this is all a part of His plan. My spirit has not had peace for a long time. Maybe I will find it today at chapel. Who knows? Maybe I’ll actually like it.”

Chapter Text

Hermione did not like it.

For one, three-quarters of the congregation likely had a cold, bronchitis, and probably pneumonia. Secondly, the smell of pungent body odor, wig powder, and stale ale had her kipper-forward breakfast rolling violently in her stomach. And thirdly, the sermon was a long and heavy lecture on two extremely wicked and perverse sins: premarital relations and adultery.

Staring at the plain cross not far from Presbyter Adamson, Hermione internally said to it, My husband tried to kill me, so is it really adultery? Can’t that be enough for divorcement in thine eyes?

To make matters worse, John resided next to her, and his gloved pinky kept innocently brushing her own. The strong, ironic urge to snog him senseless would crash into her every time he did because it meant he still wanted her even after having her. And Hermione really, really liked to be wanted. She desired being desired. She loved it when people needed her. Whether that be professionally, platonically, romantically, or sexually.

In the pew in front of her, she watched Duchess Minnie Grey lean her head on her husband's shoulder. For a split second, while stifling a yawn, Hermione almost did the same to John but caught herself when Dottie laid those blonde, ribboned-ringlets on her lap. Memories from her own childhood resurfaced.

Midnight Christmas services at St. George's. Usually, when she and her Mum attended chapel on Sundays, she'd be relatively alert, though not always interested, silently treating at least half of the sermons as she would Divination. Christmas service, though, had been hard for Hermione. Not particularly a night person as a little girl and in a semi-state of hunger from the forty-day fasting of certain foodstuffs, being peeled from her mattress at such a late hour had been awful. Most of the time, she had blankly and blurrily stared at the Holy Mother whilst robotically bowing and prostrating herself at the correct times as her stomach growled in anticipation for the large bowl of her mum's avgolemono and melomakarona. During the sermon, she plonked her head on her mummy's lap and buried her face into the folds of one of her nicer winter dresses. Lovingly, Helena Granger would comb the tangles from Hermione's hair and softly skim her fingertips over her brow, jawline, ear, and neck as she murmured what a good little girl she was. Maybe there would be one or several Cadbury bars in her stocking. It was Christmas, after all, and Mummy did love her little teacake very much.

With gentle fingers, Hermione softly played with Dottie's tendrils as well as caressing the back of her neck and tracing her ear. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she sighed contently. Willie, who sat beside Dottie, scowled jealously at the scene. Hermione almost beckoned him to come sit between her and John, so he could put his head on her lap, too. Selfishness overruled that idea when John joined in the petting of his niece, and their fingers would touch each other's. The act was so intimate. So familial. Something that a mother and father would do for their child.

What if I’m already pregnant? Hermione asked herself, the child on her lap and the man beside being distinct reminders of her conundrum.

Then I might have to leave with Ian when he comes unless…

Claire was adamant in her notes about not asking around for remedies. There was an herb or plant of some kind, though. Hermione once read how some female slaves would ingest it to trigger miscarriage. What was it called…?

‘Hermione Jean!’

The sound of her mother’s voice rang shrill, angry, and reproving inside her head; she flinched. John side-glanced her a look of concern, and Dottie mumbled sleepily into the folds of Hermione's skirt.

‘Don’t,’ said her mum.

“Are you all right?” whispered John.

Hermione forced a smile. “Does your mind ever play tricks on you? Make you think someone you know is shouting your name, but it’s not real. That person couldn’t possibly be here, so it’s really all in your head?”

His jaw ticked, lips pursing. “Yes, I-I know exactly what you mean,” he said after a moment. “Your husband? Is he who you heard?”

She shook her head. “My mother. She likes to barge in on occasion. Especially when I’m not having good, Christian thoughts.”

He chuckled quietly. “Are you telling me that you are unable to keep your thoughts pure in the Lord’s house, so your mother must project across the world to assist?” He leaned in close to her. “She was not there last night, was she?”

She cleared her throat, her face heating. Flipping open her fan she had seldomly used since Hispaniola, she waved it to cool off her face. “Are all Anglican churches this toasty and…fragrant?”

“I take it Greek churches do not suffer the same miasmatic ambiance.”

"Incense is burned and usually smells fairly pleasant as do the scented oils depending on the holiday."

John frowned. "How flamboyantly papist."

"Shut up. Your heretic church is smelly and so are the people, where as my congregation and my ancestors loved baths. Large and spacious ones were built, and the appreciation of cleanliness trickled down from generation to generation.”

“Those baths,” he murmured, once again touching his pinky to hers, “were not built for only hygienic purposes, Hermione.”

She covered her mouth with the fan, replying in Greek, “I do suppose an appreciation for aquatic fornication was not entirely lost to history.”

John checked his pocket watch and smiled forcefully with all his teeth at the presbyter. “My, my. We only have three hours left.”

“The first went by so fast,” she commented and then continued again in Greek, “Presbyter Adamson's is mighty passionate. Is he married? Was he married?”

“He consistently keeps glancing your way,” he replied, also in Greek. Adamson had been married but was no longer. Rumor was he channeled his despair into faith, service, and splenetic preaching after the divorcement from his former wife.

“No, he’s not.”

“He is, Hermione. See.”

Hermione saw, but she wasn’t going to acknowledge it, deciding then to flip through the small hymnal book Duchess Minnie loaned her.

“He is still looking,” John said, this time in English.

“You’re imagining things.” Face still lowered towards the songbook, Hermione flicked her eyes up to Adamson. His next set of words came out tongue tied and in favor of participating in premarital relations, and his cheeks pinked in mortification. He rushed to remedy his mistake, cleared his throat, and started again.

“That man adjacent from us is staring at you, too.” John scanned the congregation, frowning deeply, when Hal—who was sitting in the pew in front of he and Hermione—turned around to look back at the two of them. His expression lingered on Hermione, not like the other eight or so men who were doing the same, but out of genuine curiosity.

Hal’s and Hermione’s official introduction over the breakfast table had outwardly gone smooth. Immediately, following the kipper and eggs, however, John had found himself dragged into his study by his older brother.

“Are you out of your bloody mind, John?”

For a terrifying moment, John believed his brother discovered what had occurred during the night. Thankfully, John long ago taught himself to don a calm aura of ignorance whenever his brother asked him a question in an accusatory tone.

“Are you quite well?" John asked

“No! Lord in Heaven, did you actually march that poor, beautiful widow through two colonies? Parading her in and out of unseemly inns and taverns like a portly platter of roasted meat at an overpopulated buffet? How in God’s name did you get her here in one piece?”

John sighed in relief. His hadn’t found out, thank God. “I assure you. Her protection was mine and Willie’s top priority. No ill-will of any kind befell her.”

“Nor will it,” added Hal firmly. “Minnie told me she thought it best Madam Christakos marries soon and marries well. After meeting her, I must agree. I loathe the idea of Willie being deprived again of a suitable governess, but I fear the worst if we do not act accordingly.”

“The worst?”

“Whatever happens, Madam Christakos will inevitably marry by spring if not before. We cannot risk her courting a man beneath her station and humiliating you and Willie. Minnie mentioned she hasn’t a dowry from her first marriage. Pity, that. I will pay her well for schooling the children, mind. If she should match with a respectable gentleman, then I will arrange her a dowry.”

“That is…generous of you, Hal.”

“Willie writes to Henry and Dottie. I do read the letters. Many of them spoke of his latest governess, and you have mentioned in your own letters to me that she has done so well with him in the wake of Isobel’s passing. Willie is my nephew, and I do love him. This will be a gift borne out of my gratitude for her caring for him in his lowest of moments.”

Following another hour of preaching, Presbyter Adamson finally concluded the first half of the sermon. The singing of hymns came next. He and Hermione roused Dottie, so the three of them could stand. He arched a brow and quirked a lip when heard Hermione's sigh of exasperation.

“Everything all right, my dear?”

“I predict church in the future will only be an hour or two,” she muttered. Her face split into a child-like grin, and she offered him to hold the other half of the book of hymns. “And it will still be too damned long, Lord John.”

John coughed into his fist to hide his laughter, and he wanted to kiss her then on the cheek. He yearned to linger his lips there and then brush them to the side of nose—perhaps he’d kiss the tip there, too—and then peck at the corner of her mouth.

The singing started, and John liked the sweet and simple melodic flow of her Hermione’s voice. Though, he highly speculated she was not giving Come, O Thou Traveler Unknown her best effort, for very few in the congregation seemed to even be awake. On their feet, yes, alert and ready to praise God after two hours of Presbyter Adamson’s robust lecture on sexual sin? Certainly not. Half, if not more, likely did not even possess a solid belief in God and were there for the sake of socializing, appearance, and seeking charity.

Well into the afternoon, chapel concluded, and John found himself alone with Madam Christakos in the carriage. Willie chose to take his uncle’s carriage back to the estate as to not be separated from his cousins, and Lady Dunsany chose to spend the rest of her afternoon at a friend’s for tea and gossip.

The carriage ride back to the estate would take approximately thirty minutes, possibly longer since the rain had picked up immensely and the potential swell of James River had to be taken into account. The moment the cabin jostled, indicating their leave, John wondered how best to spend the next half-hour alone with Hermione. His top priority should be informing her of his brother’s plan in providing her a dowry, and the carriage’s moving cabin was a perfect place to start such a responsible conversation.

Nevertheless, he was a weak man, and there was another matter he needed to address before anything else took place.

“John, we have to—whatever are you doing?” Hermione instinctively pressed her back against the cushioned panel behind her when the man maneuvered to his knees.

Bunching up the petticoats and skirt of the pretty, eye-catching dress, he revealed her legs up to the knees. “It is Sunday, and I must worship.”

Her cheeks colored, eyes softening in intrigue for a split second before narrowing. “I really think we should—”

John dove under the layers of skirts, his shoulders parting her legs. While assessing what was in front of him, he thought back on the last time he had done this for a woman. It had not been since Isobel, long before he left to govern Hispaniola. Nigh on two years, it was. Plainly, two years had passed since he'd bedded a woman at all. Their sporadic nights of attempting to conceive, he pleased her in the ways she let him which included a very short and indistinct roster which, surprisingly, had included this particular act. She had made genuine attempts to reciprocate, though he never asked it of her. Up until recently, he thought such actions best performed by prostitutes or...admittedly, fellow male lovers. Isobel always ended up bashfully giggling which led to her dissolving into inconsolable crying, emotional-ridden apologies for being an inadequate lover, and then a polite yet tearful invitation for him to finish inside her. John always accepted the request with the sole intent of bringing her to optimal pleasure again before he found his own release. Sometimes he succeeded. Most of the time, he hadn't. When they finished, they drank tea in awkward silence and then he took his leave to his own quarters.

Yes.

Yes, John missed Isobel but not as a widowed husband missed his wife. 

As horrible as it sounds, if Hermione should die unexpectedly, John would not need to visit Jamie to see if his own feelings were broken. John would have to see Jamie because he would need a dear friend who possessed a plethora of near-toxic, unfinished whiskey to help numb the pain. God, she was more than just his lover. Like Jamie, she was a friend and very close one at that. When was the last time he had a companion in his bed he spoke to beyond the subject of sex?

Percy.

John banished the man from his mind, for there was no room for him down there between Madam Christakos’ legs. The insides of her thighs were tantalizingly soft and found that the back of his neck did not ache as much when resting his cheek against it whilst his mouth went seeking to return the favor she had bestowed on him the day prior.

His nose was the first to find that cluster of nerves he couldn't recall the correct, anatomical name for. He inhaled deeply before fusing his lips around it.

"Oh," Hermione softly moaned.

He hands massaged  the pliable flesh of her inner thighs, keeping her open for him. Her left shoe fell off, and the toes of her dainty, stocking-clad foot took to sweetly stroking his side as she mumbled praises of encouragement and gratitude.  When she reached her climax and he tasted the juncture of it, her breathy mutterings stopped, and a cottony, stuttering groan replaced them. He popped his head out from under her petticoats, speculatively eyed her face, and decided she needed more from him. Two of his fingers plunged into her slippery depths, then three for good measure, and she let out a startled squeak from the surprise invasion.

Though the day was dreary and rain hit against the carriage, the afternoon offered enough light to show him what the purposeful ministrations of his fingers did to her. Their first time, she'd got him lost in his own pleasure. Their second joining had been needfully naked and in the dark to which he had not seen her face whilst drowning in her nectar and being asphyxiated by her frothy, petticoat layers. Studiously, and toting much anticipation, he watched bliss overtake her. Her hips thrust forward, her eyes squeezed shut, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming and rousing the coachman to their activities.

John would’ve gladly stayed there until Mount Josiah, on his knees and fingers buried to the knuckles in her quim, but the woman appeared to struggle for breath.

"I can't...I'm having difficulty breathing," she said, laughing sheepishly. "The corset. It's a little much."

"I'll help you loosen it." Divesting a handkerchief, he wiped the tantalizing, musty sheen from his hands when he'd much rather lick the appendage clean.

Hermione shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "No. No, I fear that will cause even more problems. Sit down, darling, we have to talk." 

"But I need you. Hermione, I need you so badly, I can scarcely breath myself," he pleaded, though he did comply and sit back down on the opposite bench. There was no necessity to elaborate his dilemma. His trousers were visibly tented below the belt. 

He watched her gaze drop from his face to his lap and wondered if she was considering dropping to her own knees or straddling his lap. He recalled her want of him finishing in her mouth. She made a reaching gesture towards him—God, please yes—and then flung against the wall of the carriage, her jaw set more out of professional determination rather than lusty dedication.

“No, this is very important."

“Can it not wait?” he asked, embarrassed how desperate he sounded.

She nibbled on her bottom lip and then again, hesitantly so, leaned towards him, only to snap back against the seat like she’d been stung. Her head shook resolutely.

“No, it can’t. If we are to continue this, there is much to discuss.” She folded her arms and pinned him with a worried expression. “First and foremost, John Grey, you ejaculated inside me twice already.”

John’s eyelid twitched at ejaculated and then brought the cloth up to his mouth whence understanding her meaning. “I was led to believe you are barren—”

“I thought I made it clear at tea yesterday that it was my husband—”

“I thought you were speaking in jest to get a rise out of Louisa. Jesus, Hermione!” His stomach soured, and he contemplated jumping out of the cabin and allowing himself to get trampled by the carriage wheels. “You were married for eight years and no children to speak of—”

“Did we or did we not have a conversation about my potential illegitimate children at the Ridge? I said yesterday—”

“Fuck what you said yesterday at tea. You should have—”

“I should have what?

“Taken precautions,” he finished evenly.

“Precautions,” she repeated murderously. “Why didn’t you? You could have pulled out! You know what? You shouldn’t have even kissed me to begin with. You and your pretty words about my face and eyes! This is all your fault!”

“My fault?” He gaped. “I don’t recall you pushing me away, and everyone knows that it’s the woman’s responsibility—OOOOOooooh, fucking hell.” John’s hands cupped between his legs to prevent further assault and to ease the throbbing.

Hermione opened the carriage window and poked her head out into the rain while her hand reached blindly to obtain her discarded shoe. “Stop the carriage!”

“What are you doing?” he groaned.

The rocking of the cabin came to a halt, and Hermione found her shoe and burst open the cabin door. “You will never touch me again.”

“That did not answer my question.”

She hopped outside into the pouring rain. “I would rather suffer the weather with the footman than be in here a second longer with you. My husband was…well, he was a lot of things and far from perfect, but at least he was willing to take his share of responsibility in our relationship.”

“Hermione, wait! If you are with child—”

“You needn’t worry. It is the woman’s responsibility, after all.”

She slammed the door, and John allowed himself to fall onto his side, groaning. Dear Christ, she punched him solidly in the cock. Through the pain, he dramatically concluded that if Hermione was, indeed, in the family way, at least there would be a legacy for him. For he certainly wasn’t going to be capable of ejaculating for the foreseeable future.

For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, John failed to corner Hermione by herself. She cleverly evaded him, comfortably encapsulating herself in the company of Minnie and Dottie during a lengthy and gluttonous tea and then, afterwards, playing game after game of piquet with them. He would’ve bluntly charged into their fiddle-faddle, but every time he got a moment, Hal found him and dragged him back into the office to talk about the blasted Regulators, his regiment, and Benjamin’s increasingly rebellious attitude.

After dinner—during which Hermione determinedly pretended that Minnie was her best and most closest friend—John indulged Hal for brandy and declined a pipe. Adam was to join them, Hal believing the young man ready to discuss the goings-on of the world with his father and uncle, the fourteen-year-old surprisingly declined. Apparently, Madam Christakos was putting on a bit of storytelling and messy fun in the nursery consisting of three turnips and one orange-yellow gourd filched from the garden.

Around half-passed nine, curiosity got the better of both of them, and John and his brother popped into the nursery to see what exactly the governess had planned for such a vegetal itinerary.

Two identical pairs of blue eyes damned near popped out of near identical skulls at witnessing a hollowed pumpkin leading a small band of equally hollowed turnips. The four desecrated items of produce were on the dresser near the window where the curtains were open. All four of the vegetables possessed faces consisting of triangles for eyes and noses and horrifyingly jagged grins for mouths. The ghastly expressions were exaggerated and illuminated by lights shining outwards from within themselves.

John couldn’t choose what was more frightening: the glowing, demonic, and defaced produce or…his sister-in-law dressed in not but her nightrobe and slippers sitting on the floor of the unlit nursery amongst her children spewing a tale of a vengeful ghost and hidden treasures.

Hermione was in a similar state of undress but not on the floor. She was sitting up on Willie’s bed, the boy’s head nestled on her lap as she caressed his face and petted his hair.

Hal broke into a fit of coughs causing his wife to pause her tale of a corporeal lady ghost who was just about to stab to death her murderous and very alive, treacherous husband with a golden, bejeweled sword. “Minnie,” he said, “What on earth is going on here?”

“We’re telling each other ghost stories, Daddy,” Dottie piped, her own head being supported by her mother’s lap.

“In lieu of Samhain,” said Adam, importantly.

“Which is tomorrow,” added Henry.

“...I see...” John cast a side-glance at Hal who looked on the verge of suffering an apoplexy.

“Mine weren't so much as ghost stories,” said Hermione, “but a history lesson pertaining to Gaelic Ireland. However, I did have to tell them about a fellow named Stingy Jack, didn't I?”

“Madam Christakos can speak Gaelic,” announced Dottie, popping up excitedly. “It sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard before.”

Hermione paled. “Oh, well I wouldn’t say I can speak it. My pronunciation is rather atrocious—”

“Hermione knows a few words,” said Minnie, her tone calm and ever so careful. Her eyes rested on her husband’s, unafraid. Silently, she was ordering the Duke of Pardloe and loyal officer to the Crown to ignore what their daughter just released out into the wild.

“And where did Madam Christakos learn how to atrociously pronounce those few words?” Hal asked, not to Hermione, but his wife. He was not going to ignore it, apparently.

John wanted to know that, as well. He knew her to be polyglot, yes, but he had not known she spoke Gaelic on top of everything. She spoke six languages, so she said and so he had heard. Gaelic would be her seventh.

Not for the first time, John Grey had concerns regarding his governess. To be honest, the entire second month of her being under his employment, he wondered her a spy and then dismissed that notion when his staff in Hispaniola found nothing of the sort about her. On the ship to the colonies, he kept a close eye on her. Sorting through her personal writings like he had the day before was nothing new. What he found was unworthy of concern or report. Hermione never received anything by mail, nor had she sent anything out yet. What she planned to mail was a letter to Claire Fraser. For all the travelling Hermione had done since coming into John’s employment, she hadn’t sent a single letter home to Greece.

And yet...Hermione apparently had a dream diary and logged semi-frequently in it. If John had known this, he’d have sought that out earlier. He best make plans in getting his hands on it and giving the pages a gander.

John was confident she wasn’t a spy, and the reason she kept her linguistic knowledge of the Gaelic language a secret was obvious. Be that as it was, like Hal, John wanted to know where she learned it, who from, and for what purpose?

On a brighter note, if on the off-chance Hermione was affiliated with any intelligence work, Minnie would sort her out good and quick. Upon first impression, Minnie could and would  appear posh, vapid, and a glamourous socialite. In reality, she was the spy.

“Are you going to teach us Gaelic?” Henry asked.

“No,” said all four adults, Hermione and Hal the loudest.

“I would like to learn,” Willie said, rising to a sitting position. He shot a pleading look to Hermione. “Will you teach me? Mr. Fraser speaks it, and I’m still working on my thank you letter to him. I could add a Gaelic passage—”

“Mr. Fraser?”

Hal seemed to have suffered a near stroke again and leaned against the door frame, pulling out a handkerchief from his vest to dab his forehead.

“That is not part of the curriculum, nor will it ever be,” Hermione said gently, finger-combing a few of Willie’s wayward curls behind his ear. “I’m sorry. All four of you children—including myself—will be learning German the next several months on top of your Greek and French lessons.”

“Please. I want to learn. Papa?” He shot a pleading look to his father.

“I’m sorry, Willie. The answer is no,” John said.

His son dramatically threw himself back on his bed. “I never get to do what I want! It’s not fair! I should be able to learn whatever language I please! I’m the Ninth bloody Earl of Ellesmere, for Christ’s sake, and no one should be able to tell me what I can and cannot do!”

Dottie gasped, pointed her finger at her cousin, and gleefully, said, “You’re going to get it, Willie! Three minutes of soap in the mouth for blasphemy! Mummy and Madam, you hold him down, and I’ll shove the bar in!”

“What an excellent idea. Or” Hermione said, wickedly grinning and flexing her fingers, “we can go for another method of chastising.”

“No,” Willie grunted.

Hermione leapt onto Willie, tickling his sides and planting kisses on his face. Dottie cackled at the scene and launched herself into it, joining Hermione in her actions followed by Minnie several moments later.

“Apologize to the Savior, Willie,” Hermione goaded, placing a very wet and loving smooch on his forehead.

“Yeah, Ninth Squirrel of Smellesmere,” Adam chuckled from the sidelines. “Tell Jesus you’re sorry.”

Hal released a slow and mirthless sigh at the scene. John thought he was about to order everyone to seize their antics but instead said, “Let us return to the office, brother. In time, this scene will sort itself out. As for your explanation in visiting Fraser and your governess speaking a prohibited language, that may take longer.”

John watched his brother walk down the hallway towards the staircase. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, Hal.”

“No, but you and I both know it will be much similar and less painful for everyone if you do. Come. We’ll open another bottle of brandy and sort out the details of your apparent visit with Mr. Fraser soon enough.”

"Are you quite certain she's not a spy?"

John pursed his lips at the third glass of brandy in his hand, and replied to his brother a loose-tongued, "I'm...ninety percent positive she's not."

"Are you certain she's even Greek?"

"No." With his free hand, John waved vaguely at his own face. "But there's something Mediterranean there, I'm sure. One of her parents most assuredly is an Anglo. The freckles."

Hal paused his pacing. "Italian, maybe. An Italian Catholic. You've said she speaks Italian and Spanish."

"I've heard native speakers, and she's not one of them. Her Greek is flawless, though."

"What of being a Catholic? She could be a Jacobite sympathizer."

"Like Minnie."

Hal glared at his brother's cheek. "She was young and doing what her father told her."

What an epic load of bollocks, but John lacked the sobriety to argue. "I've spoken to her a little about the Rising. With much carefulness, I would say she knows more about it than a Greek woman has any business knowing. And I could tell..." John slit his eyes and gestured with his glass. "She had opinions."

"What sort of opinions if you were to hazard a guess?"

John waved dismissively. "I hadn't the courage nor time to ask. I suspect she has two hour lectures stowed away in that brilliant mind of hers for any number of topics, so if you are ever at loose ends and feel like receiving a verbal beat down, my employee will serve you well."

"You said she took to Claire Fraser during the visit and acted as if they spoke their own secret language. Perhaps they already knew each other. You said they beheld...similarities. They could be related, and we know now that she was the Stuart Witch and a spy."

"They connected because they are women who've been surrounded by men for far too long."

"But you mentioned you witnessed Hermione cross herself once."

"I was feverish and ill. I can't say for certain what I saw, but you know as well as I do that the Orthodox folk do it, too." John snickered. "In good humor, Willie and I have accused her of Catholicism, and she doesn't take kindly to it. I once asked which papist family she liked the most: the Medicis or Borgias and for my trouble, she gave a crate of brandy I brought with me from Hispaniola to the Cherokee when we reached Charleston. Not traded but handed ten bottles of brandy over for nothing. She swears up and down she has no idea what I'm talking about, but I know it was her and what she did, the treacherous little tart."

Hal flared his nostrils. "French. She is most definitely French."

Hesitantly, John nodded. "The five percent of doubt I have stems from that possibility. Her French is flawless. The other five is that...her English is regionally specific. If I knew nothing else of her, I would say she was a Surrey girl who spent her nights at home, week days socializing among London's gentry, and weekends library-lounging in Cambridge." 

Hal resumed his pacing. "Born in Surrey to a French and Greek."

"Know anyone there who fits that description?"

"Can't say I do but would make an ounce of more sense given her knowledge of Britain's more pagan folklore. Samhain and Gaelic?"

John drained the rest of his drink and decided not to refill his glass. He was feeling rather foggy-headed, faint, and foolish. "She says she acquired her speech patterns from her own governess. I didn't necessarily take it at face value. Like Minnie," he raised his empty glass at his brother, "she's a woman of secrets and since I'm not her husband, the troubling truths she has revealed to me bring with them very little context."

"What troubling truths?"

"Oh," John murmured setting his glass down and then collapsing most heavily in his chair, "well, she has a most frightening scar on her forearm. I did not even know about it until recently. She hides it most cleverly and then there's that horrid, textured slash upon her ribs..."

In his peripheral, his brother's pacing stopped again, and the man stared at him in horrified alarm.

Blinking sluggishly at Hal, John yawned a, "Something the matter?"

"Her ribs?"

"That's what I said." Buggery, he best get to bed. He wasn't feeling so well. All that brandy mixed with a paltry dinner wasn't doing him any favors.

"John, I know you're drunk. Lies can fall out of loosened tongues but so can truths. Did Madam Christakos tell you about her horrid, textured slash, or did you see it for yourself?"

"I..." A sobering punch of realization struck John chest. He forced a neutral expression on his face and pressed his fingertips into a triangle, painting a picture of the most pensive professionalism sort. "Well, I think it obvious she told me."

Hal stumbled forward to brace himself on his brother's desk. "Jesus Christ, John, you've seen her naked!"

A memory of the night before lurched forward where Hermione laid down on her rug, parted her robe, and spread her legs to show him the way into her pink, cozy little cave. "Of course not! We are both in mourning of our spouses, and I have shown nothing but gentlemanly behavior towards her. Madam Christakos, herself, is a most delicate paragon of virtuous widowhood."

He said that last bit with the image of her rosy and wet swollen lips wrapping around his cock.

"John?"

Being torn from the fantasy of once again burying his face into Hermione's quim again, he said a polite and overly alert, "Yes?"

"How on earth did she seduce you?"

"We have not lain with each other, Hal. You know I'm...You know it's not like that for me. Women and I are," he put a fist to his chest to suppress trapped air bubble, "complicated."

Hal gave him a careful yet enlightened stare. "She letting you bugger her like a depraved whore was a sure way to intrigue you enough to drop your trousers."

John sprung up and grabbed his brother by his collar. "How dare you?" he bellowed. "How dare you say such filth about her? She is a woman of undoubtedly-high education, bravery, and overwhelming compassion. She takes to strangers in need of a helping hand like a fish to water. She chose to show Willie love from the very beginning when it would've been easier to strangle the little shit. She pampers him daily to ensure he remains in high spirits while she paves the way for him to be successful in university and adulthood. She is, by far, the most clever woman I've ever met, hysterically witty, adorably pretty, and unworthy of any common fuck who dare glances her way!"

Unmoved by the speech, Hal most calmly placed his hands over his younger brother's and removed them from his person but did not release them. Instead, he squeezed them. "Minnie was a status-less spy when I met her."

"Hermione isn't a spy. I'm...almost certain.""

Hal let out a sigh belaying a complex cluster of feelings and refrained opinions. He patted John's hand and squeezed it again before stepping back. "Be careful with her, John. Let us not forget we've a meeting with Bobwhite in the late morning. It's about business, but I highly suspect he has other ideas on his mind. He, among many men, spent Adamson's sermon staring at her assuredly envisioning everything he told them not to do. Lust aside, he may be a good match."

"The hell he is. He looks like a hog."

"You like her now and might even think you love her—"

"It's not like that—"

"You will not lure her into a false sense of security when in truth, you can give her nothing more than what you gave Isobel: carnal companionship and chicanery." 

"Regardless of what I can offer her, Hermione is the only one who can stop me from entering her bedchamber. Not you or anyone else."

His older brother arched a bemused brow and gestured to the chessboard on the table near the hearth. "If you win, I'll stay out of it for now, and I will keep my offer of the dowry on the table."

"If you win?"

"I'll let you know."

John gave it his best. Alas, he kept woolgathering about his time with Hermione in the carriage and what kind of illicit naughtiness would've taken place if she hadn't opted bringing attention the perturbing possibility of procreation.

As he unhurriedly reset the board for another game to be played another day, Hal revealed nothing of what he believed himself entitled to, given he won the match.

"All in good time." His brother nursed the rest of the brandy straight from the bottle. "Anyway, back to Benjamin. I suspect he'll risk the travel and make himself known by Christmas for the sake of dodging Minnie's wrath." 

As old men tend to do, both he and Hal fell asleep in their sofa chairs next to the fireplace, the flames crackling and alluringly warm. When the cuckoo clock struck midnight, John roused from sleep and then groaned grumpily when he felt the deep smarting in his lower back.

He had wanted to go to Hermione and make things right, and with her permission, fuck her silly.

Whilst his brother continued snoring softly in his chair, John quilled a quick note to Hermione and shoved the folded paper underneath her door. He pressed his ear against the solid oak barrier, praying his sister-in-law nor the children were to spontaneously exit their bedrooms and discover him in in the midst of his private session of post-midnight groveling.

Hearing nothing, he tested the door and found it locked. Forlornly, he returned downstairs and went to his quarters. He fell asleep planning on what to do the following day to get back into Hermione’s good graces.

Chapter Text

My dearest Hermione,

I write this with a guilty heart. I am most desperate for your forgiveness. I do apologize for our exchange in the carriage. Upon reflection, I know it was grossly naïve of me to make assumptions about the more delicate, womanly intricacies of your person. In truth, I was being reckless and did not want to think of the possible consequences of our coupling. It was easier—as foolish things are—to believe in both the heat of the moment and in long term perspective, you could not conceive. Please allow us a time for privacy where I can, in person, correct my grave error.

I understand if you continue your refusal of my touch and even wish to terminate our friendship, but I do wish to one day earn your forgiveness. Hermione, you have wormed you way into my mind and into my soul and if our bodies and conversations should never join again, then I will somehow live on in gratitude for experiencing the pleasure of both. And, my dearest sweetheart, if you are with child, then…

Despite knowing there was nothing on the back, Hermione flipped over the creased paper anyway.

Then what?

Then what?

“Lord John, you utter arsehole,” she hissed under her breath and refrained from stamping her foot.

The letter was unfished. There wasn’t even a postscript.

“Oh, John, you bad, bad man. You just undid all my hard work,” she growled, throwing the letter into the lit hearth and returning to the center of the rug. Another ten minutes of yoga whilst focusing on good positivity should reposition her chakra. She had woken up well before the rooster in absolute state of sexual frustration.

More out of pride and not out of shame, Hermione refused to find her own relief and sought mental and physical refuge in bouts of Pilates, yoga, and tai chi. She moved and stretched and tortured her muscles and mind until the idea of indulging an urge created by John Grey seemed dissolutely exhausting.

But not impossible.

Because even still, as she resumed the repetitive position and movement of downward dogs into planks, she wanted John to take care of the ache. For a man who seemed to prefer the company of men, he had no troubles pleasing Hermione. On that note, the delicate and intricate matters of sexuality were rarely so simple. How John interacted romantically with women could very well differ on how he instigated such relations with men. With Draco, though bisexual, the select few of the male species who tickled his fancy had not stemmed primarily from superficial attractiveness but out of a deeper connection made. Friendship and an iron-clad trust developed before the subject of sodomy was ever approached, thus, why Draco had only invited two men into that part of his life.

Perhaps John was opposite of Draco. He intimately connected with women after knowing them and interacting with them for some time before developing any sexual feelings towards them.

Hermione wasn’t sure about this. She wasn’t sure about a whole lot when it came to John Grey. Until Saturday, she had only been acquainted with the poised and professional, English gentleman part of him. Bedding a man without a thorough investigation on her part was unlike her. Having sex with him the first time could be attributed to the alcohol, and Hermione could forgive herself for it. The second time, no, and she wasn’t sure why she had thrown her own rules out the window.

A naïve person might accuse her of being in love with John Grey, but even in her most besotted state—for she had experience love twice in her life—she never invited a man to share her bed until she knew all the gritty details of his sexual past. With Ron, that conversation had been rather short, but no less impactful on how their relationship developed. The same conversation with Draco had not been so brief. The night had been a long one that leaked into the wee hours of the morning. Tummies filled with coffee and cakes, their lips sticky and swollen, her would-be husband shared with her all the women who he had relations with.

As the dawn crested that cold February morning, he brokenly confessed to her of his sporadic habit of bedding Blaise Zabini and Adrian Pucey.

“My parents must never know,” he said, burying his face into shoulder. The thick, wooly fabric of her sweater cushioned him pointy features and absorbed his tears.

“Your secrets will always be safe with me. You will always be safe with me, Draco Malfoy. I am your haven and your sanctuary now.” Her fingers combed through his beautifully silky hair. “And I promise to rarely deny you entrance.”

“Marry me.”

“We’ve only been dating four months.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“That was not a question. It was a demand.”

“Will you marry me, Granger?”

She bit her lip, unnerved how a thoughtless yes attempted to leap off her tongue. “Ask me again in a year. When you’ve quit smoking and our family and friends have become accustomed to the idea of us.”

Transitioning into astavakrasana, all of Hermione’s screaming and protesting muscles yanked her back to her current state of agony. Bloody hell, she hadn’t done this pose in over a month. Focusing on maintaining breath control, she meditated on the fact that it was one thing to be emotionally weak during this time period. But it was another to be physically weak and a woman. What if someone like Bonnet tried to have a go at her, and her magic failed her? Without a wand, it could.

“You must protect yourself,” Ginny said, invading her meditation. “For the baby.”

“There’s no baby.”  Hermione collapsed onto the rug, sweat dripping down her face. Laying on her back, she bent her knees and began a grueling set of sit ups, bicycle abs, toe touches, scissor kicks, and mountain climbers.

“What are you doing?”

“My abs are squishy from all the bread and beer I’ve been drinking.”

“I thought you were trying to gain weight for winter.”

“Plus, I’m being fitted for new dresses today.”

“Ask for adjustable stays and tell the tailor to give you a bit of wiggle room—”

“Go away, Gin.”

“You’re doing nothing but creating a stronger environment for your baby and for your body, and you know it.”

“No, I’m not. I’m trying to be prepared. I’ll be travelling by myself soon.”

Hermione untied the skirt of her sopped shift from between her thighs. Using magic, she filled up her small bathing vessel with hot water, not wanting to wait or cause extra work for Charlotte or Abigail. After a good wash, she dressed herself, using a little magic to create a simpler garment from her first dress she stole in Hispaniola.

Until breakfast, Hermione spent her morning in the library in preparation for lessons and flipping through a second edition of The Complete Works of Shakespeare.

John was absent from the breakfast table as was Pardloe and Louisa. Minnie gave Hermione’s dress a funny and almost envious look but said nothing about it.

Minerva Grey.

Tucking into her honey porridge, Hermione wondered what she could say about Minerva Grey that could adequately describe her.

The woman was…fascinating and terrifyingly brilliant beneath all that false vapidity. After spending time with her yesterday, Hermione got the impression Minnie didn’t give a flying fart about Christmas engagements, spring weddings, and rich men. What she cared about was an educated woman like herself, not having sufficient means to live safely. Women of brilliance were regarded unfavorably during this time and having a man of status, wealth, and respect vouch for your oddities and better yet, love you for those things gave you a fair amount of protection.

“We didn’t have a chance to review the syllabi yesterday,” Hermione said to the woman. “And I don’t wish to hide anything I teach to your children from you or the duke. We will be reading from The Royal Slave.”

“The Royal Slave. Wherever did you get a copy?" Minnie arched a dark blonde brow and gently bit into a piece of buttered toast.

“Charleston from a seventeen-year-old, book-peddling Cherokee. I gave him five bottles of brandy, a pound of sugar, and a kiss on the cheek for it. I confess, only one of those items were mine to trade.”

“My, my, Hermione. Many would say you overpaid.”

“But you don’t, do you?”

“Optimistically speaking, books are priceless. I’ve only held once a copy of The Royal Slave, and I, myself, was about seventeen. I was in Paris at the time. My father ran a business there concerning rare books and the like.” Minnie cocked her head shrewdly. “Behn was a Stuart sympathizer, suspected Jacobite, and spy.”

“How hopelessly brave of her,” Hermione replied. “Will my teaching of the book upset you?”

“I, myself, am an abolitionist and coaxing my husband into the same, correct state of mind is an ongoing process. As for John, he’s always found slavery deplorable.” She gestured to their surroundings. “It’s why he was so insistent on hiring help rather than paying visits to the slave market. It worked out that Christopher Bobwhite freed his help five years ago after his father died. He, too, is most passionate about slavery coming to an end. Did you meet him yesterday, Bobwhite?”

“I don’t recall formally meeting anyone. Was he the one who…well, seems like he has an appetite?”

“Quite so. John and Hal have a meeting with him late this morning, and I best go with them or else they’ll all just drink themselves under the table. I’ll be inviting Bobwhite to dinner this week and wish for you to meet him. Don’t let the extra padding trouble you. He’s positively charming and a wonderful father to boot. I spoke briefly to him yesterday at chapel, and he is a man of merry and mirth. Have you ever courted a funny man, Madam?”

“I courted men who thought they were.”

Abigail came into the dining room with another pitcher of watered wine. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in some, Madam?” she asked Hermione while refilling Minnie’s cup.

“I will not be imbibing until further notice,” Hermione said, “but thank you.”

“Shall I fetch coffee and milk then for you?”

“That would be splendid, thank you.”

“Drink the wine,” Ginny said.

“I will in two weeks.”

“Coward.”

“There's nothing wrong with being cautious. Besides, it's morning. I never drank in the morning before I came to this horrible place.”

“Not even a little cider?” asked Minnie. “You didn’t have any last night either or at breakfast yesterday.”

“I’m fine, thank you. Besides, my measurements are being taken later. Alcohol tends to make me swell around the middle.”

As she finished up her plate, she returned upstairs to clean her teeth and make further preparations in the library.

At precisely nine, the children arrived and spent five minutes squabbling on who got to sit where around the oval table. Because of this nonsense, assigned seating was distributed accordingly. There were four of them, so it hardly mattered to Hermione, but to them it did. The choice to sit wherever they liked had been taken from them, so the three boys spent the first hour passive-aggressively taking time on completing their assessments. As for Dottie, she sat closest to Hermione and finished her assessment in forty-five minutes. She spent the rest shooting taunting smirks at Adam and Willie, the latter having not had to share his governess’s attention until now.

Well after eleven, in the thick of their French lessons, Adam lost his temper and responded to his sister’s quirking lips by hastily scribbling a diminutive penis and equally trivial set of testicles on the corner of her sheet of paper.

Before Hermione could discipline Adam as needed, Dottie arched a brow at the artwork. “Is that self-inspired? If it is, I think it best you get examined post haste. Never mind about the scantiness. I dare say, you are lopsided.”

“It really is…lacking,” offered Willie, casting a troubled frowned at the lap of his cousin’s breeks. “Has something happened?”

Henry, completely oblivious to the scene, audibly yawned while raising his quill inquiringly. “Madam Christakos, what are your thoughts on dueling? Pistols or swords? Is it dashingly brave or ambitiously short-sided for a man of thirteen to challenge a plonker of eighteen to a duel? Asking for a friend, mind.”

“Uh…” Hermione  rubbed her forehead, pinching her eyes shut. One at a time, then. “All right, Dottie, do please stop baiting your brother. Willie, we do not need commentary. Adam, for your immaturity and lack of gentlemanliness, you will be first to read The Royal Slave, and I expect a six-page report about due this Friday. One of those pages will be dedicated to your opinions on slavery and another will be how you think it will influence our future. The rest of you will have similar assignments soon.

“As for dueling,” Hermione continued, shifting her attention to Henry who sat up straight and eager under her gaze. “We’re conjugating French verbs. We are not discussing the pros and cons of guns and blades.”

“How do you say then in French,” Henry began, his tone serious, “no you mayn’t fornicate with my governess?”

 “I-I beg your pardon.”

Adam sprung to his feet, slammed his fist on table, and then pointed a finger at his younger brother. “That Caldwell prick from church yesterday is who you’re talking about, isn’t it? Guns and blades are too good for him. Hell, a duel is too good for him. We’ll hack him to bits with a rusty hatchet. Willie, are you in?”

Akin to Adam, Willie nodded and got nobly to his feet, chin lifted in aristocratic sensibility. “I’m not entirely sure what fornicate means.”

“Presbyter Adamson said it a thousand times yesterday,” Dottie said. She pinned Hermione with an intense, blue-eyed stare. “What does fornicate really mean, Madam Christakos?”

Adam and Henry opened their mouths, and Hermione snapped a finger and pointed at them, shaking her head.

“We are not trudging through the murky and dangerous waters of a human health course, children. We are discussing French—”

“The French are known for fornicating,” Henry interjected, wiggling his brows at Adam. “Why do you think they call it the French Disease?”

“Sometime next year, Father promised to take me to a broth—” Adam stopped himself and anxiously clocked his aghast governess and little sister. “House. A broth house. Where there is a lot of soup.”

Willie, at the awkward age that he was, wasn’t anatomically aware of how fornication worked. Sure, he grew up on a horse-breeding estate. Studding and copulating of mammals were not unfamiliar to him. The origins of a wobbly-legged foal were not a mystical secret to him. His understanding of human babies, though, fell remarkably short for his age. He had a superficial concept of how they got out, and that it could be painful and life-threatening. But he was heedless how they got in. Surely, humans were more dignified and clean than horses and dogs.  

As for fornication, he figured it had something to do with maybe two unmarried people of opposite genders literally sleeping together in private quarters. Perhaps, there were long, goodnight kisses involved. He knew what a brothel was that Adam referred to and that women who liked kissing for money lived in such establishments. Why would Uncle Hal take Adam there? Why would Uncle Hal go there at all? He and Aunt Minnie kissed all the time. Was it kissing that led to babies? If that was the case, his aunt and uncle would be drowning in progeny.

Evidently, this Caldwell fellow that Adam spoke of wanted to kiss his governess. Had the man showed any interest in properly courting her? Kissing her hand first and complimenting her in some lamely poetic manner? Had he property? Money? Status? What were his intentions? Did he have any plans whatsoever beyond kissing Madam Christakos in a shared bedroom? Had the man even talked to her?

“What kinds of soup?” Dottie asked, suspicious.

Willie’s belly growled as his thoughts drifted to soup.                                                                                    

“French onion and tomato bisque,” Hermione murmured, unable to help herself.

“I’m hungry,” announced Willie. “Is it time for lunch? May we have soup for lunch?”

Around noon, Hermione left the children to their own devices. She went downstairs and as luck would have it, Caroline was stirring up a pot of potato leek soup. Hermione would’ve fumbled and bumbled with the 18^th century appliances if Caroline hadn’t helped her in slicing, dicing, and spicing some apples. She also helped her in safely heating up a skillet to assemble messy cheese toasties made with soft, spreadable goat cheese and something that tasted and smelled like white cheddar. Hermione was sure Caroline got a sandwich, as well.

“We’ll add fried eggs and bacon on the sandwiches next time,” she declared while depositing another clump of bacon into Hermione’s bowl.

“Thank you, but really, this is too much.” Hermione winced out a smile, for she had recently come to terms with incorporating meat into her diet again.

“There’s only one way you ain’t going to freeze to death this winter. We already had our first snow before you got here, and we’ll be getting our second soon enough.”

Returning to the library, her students tucked into the meal like they hadn’t thoroughly breakfasted three hours prior. Sitting between Dottie and Willie, the boy chomped on his sandwich as he absentmindedly leaned his head against her shoulder.

After lunch, they spent time outside walking the grounds. They needed to exorcise the heavy lethargy their substantially gluttonous lunch possessed them with. Upon their stroll, Hermione had to again witness her dear Barbie being mounted by that blasted Friesian horse.

“It is strange,” said one of the groomsmen to Hermione. “We have been trying to stud Beetle for a year now. He hasn’t taken to any of the females until you brought the pretty Barbie.”

Hermione side-eyed the massive, twenty-ish groomsman. His given name was Abe, but it couldn’t have been his birth name. His accent and obsidian hue told her he was not born in the colonies. He looked and was built like an elite, Nigerian footballer and was just as extraordinarily handsome.

“We got a half-hour, Abe. I brought us some lunch, too,” said Charlotte who ran into the stables, a basket of goods slung in the crook of her arm. Her young and eager face fell in disappointment and embarrassment when seeing Hermione and the four children.

Hermione noted Charlotte’s lack of apron, her untied collar, and capless mane. Her long, riotous curls were somewhat manipulated into a thick braid which hung down her back.

For a moment, Hermione considered rounding up the kids and leaving Abe and Charlotte to their privacy but then remembered Charlotte may’ve had the responsibility of an adult woman, but she was still sixteen and expectedly a little silly. Because of this, Hermione took her time rounding up her students—the two older engrossed in the mating session happening in the far left stable, and the two younger pampering and petting a fat little pony aptly named Pudding. Once she successfully removed them from the scene, Charlotte and Abe had eaten what was in the basket had less than three minutes alone until she’d have to return to the Bobwhite plantation to finish up her duties there.

Hermione almost felt bad, but not really.

She and her students returned to the library, and they dove headfirst into a specific point in English history. Grinning at her schedule for the day, she wrung her fingers and said, “Yes, all right then. Let's talk about the Vikings.”

John woke late in the morning and cursed at himself for missing breakfast and the opportunity to engage Hermione in conversation over juicy strips of bacon and hot, soothing coffee in a safe and semi-public setting. The sun was well up, and the clock in the study told him it was close to ten o’ clock. Hermione would be in the upstairs library with the children.

She had not come to him like he anticipated.

After a shave and wash, he dressed and scuffled about the kitchen looking for food. Caroline entered through the back door, apron bloated with potatoes and leeks, and took pity on him. Before starting lunch, she prepared him two thick pieces of buttered bread slathered in jam and a cup of strong coffee.

“Master Bobwhite is expecting you in thirty minutes, sir,” Caroline reminded, refilling his cup, this time with tea and a splash of cream and brandy. “I packed you a basket to bring to him. There’s a jar of that peanut spread Madam Christakos brought, too. Bobwhite's young’uns will lose their minds over it, and she was kind enough to give me a couple of jars of it. She’s going to show me this weekend how to make the stuff.”

“I find that I don’t particularly care for it, honestly.”

Caroline stared at him as if he just confessed in spending his spare time consorting with regulators and printing broadsheets that proclaimed William Shakespeare was a subpar playwright, and she regretted the nip of cream and brandy she put in his tea.

Placing a large bottle of grappa in the gift basket designated for Christopher Bobwhite and his five sons, Caroline shrugged one shoulder. “His Grace liked it just fine on his toast this morning.”  

“You’re an observing woman, Mrs. Bobwhite,” John began, careful, “what is your impression of Madam Christakos.”

Caroline busied her hands by folding a crusty, brown loaf of bread into a cheesecloth. Eventually, she lifted her eyes and boldly stared into his own. “Mr. Bobwhite had his cousin and Presbyter Adamson over for supper. She was all they talked about, paying no attention or compliment to the buttered pheasant I spent hours of my sabbath slow roasting. The boys did, though. They’re good boys, I tell you. Their late mama raised them right. Spoiled them fierce but was not above putting the fear of her Great Spirit in them when needed. She was a lot like Madam in that way. Anyway, the men entered the dining room as friends and departed from the dining table as competitors. She’s going to cause a stir. She won’t mean to, but she will all the same.”

The conversation was not going in the direction wanted at all. John didn’t want hear—nor did he want to care, but did— about Hermione’s charm and beauty already starting familial and religious disputes on the banks of James River. What he wished to know was something deeper.

John cleared his throat and pulled out a heavy purse from the recess of his frock and set it directly by her working hands. “Mrs. Bobwhite, I know you’re already contracted as my employee, but I wish to hire you and other members of your family for other positions on top of the ones you are all already performing so excellently. I have concerns about Madam Christakos. I would like very much for you and other to keep a close eye on her at all hours of the day. I know she’ll spend half of them in the library with the children, so feel free to switch off. I want a full report of what she’s teaching my son, my niece, and my nephews. When she’s makes visits into town, I want to know every establishment she enters and every person she speaks to.”

With a smooth swipe of her hand, the purse disappeared somewhere beneath the countertop. “Absolutely, my lord.”

“Now that we have come to an agreement, what is your true impression of her, Mrs. Bobwhite.”

The woman pressed hardened fists into the small of her back, massaging an ache. The weight of her slack and sleeping growing child wrapped around her torso couldn’t be helping ease the pain “She’s homesick. She’s got the look of a child missing her mama. I reckon she’s making plans to return to Greece come spring when the ports open up all the way again…if that’s really where she’s from.” Caroline arched a brow at him. “And she couldn’t give a flying fiddle about remarrying.”

“But if she were to fall in love—”

Caroline snorted. “She’s not that kind of woman, my lord.”

“To fall in love?”

“Oh, she’s definitely that kind of woman.” Caroline bobbed her head. “Her heart is as soft as an overripe peach. What I mean is that she doesn’t let love get in her way. She feels it. She welcomes it. She keeps it. But even the softest of peaches have those hard pits that are tough to crack. She doesn’t allow love to mess up her plans and if she’s fixing to get back to her mama, there ain’t going to be a man rich or charming enough to stop her.”

“But what if she really loves him?” he countered, blushing at his own foolish question and glancing over his shoulder to ensure he and Caroline were still alone. "Not me, but someone else. A friend. I am asking for a friend."

He was simply asking for the sake of curiosity. In the hypothetical chance that she did find herself in love with a man—not him—but someone like Bobwhite.

“Hmm,” Caroline noised pensively

“Or she,” John coughed, feeling his face heat even more, “becomes with child because she decided to lay with a man outside the bonds of marriage? She would have to stay and marry…for the sake of the child.”

Caroline handed him a pewter plate of salted pork and apple slices. “Or she could depart quietly from Alexandra harbor in the early spring. The sin won’t be showing just yet. The other passengers won’t know her story and think her a widow. She’ll be home in time—”

“No.” He almost slammed his plate on the counter but stopped himself from displaying such brutish behavior. He’d wake Caroline’s chunky little lad, and the woman would certainly throw something hard and heavy at his head and banish him from the kitchen for the rest of ever. “I mean, no,” he repeated more calmly. “The father, whoever he may be, has the responsibility and right to provide and care for the child.”

The stretchy cloth encasing her person wriggled, and a whimper could be heard. Georgie woke up, anyway. Five chubby fingers and a chubby foot poked out. Behind Caroline’s heavy and modest apron, a fat little hand peeled back the collar of her plain bodice and the yawning gap of her shift. A moment later, snorting sucking sounds of post-nap feasting echoed throughout the kitchen. 

Caroline sighed softly, her arms coming up to better support her hungry son, swaying. “I am sorry, my lord. When I first met you both on Saturday, I thought…never mind. What’s done is done. But she will leave you, whether she has your baby in her womb or not. Even if her heart, body, and soul are consumed by love, she won't stay.”

“That is preposterous—”

“You’ve known her longer, so you know I’m right. She’s led by her mind.”

“And what if love were to consume that, too? Would she stay then?”

The woman solemnly shook her head. “No, my lord, she’d drag you with her.”

Like a carriage crashing into another in the midst of a bustling market square, John Grey struggled to not gape at the painting of the late Mrs. Christopher Bobwhite on the wall behind her living husband. Genuinely, she had been a beautiful woman. The artist had painted her standing proudly tall and mostly naked and hadn't shirked from portraying her true skin color. Her tone had been of shimmering, melted copper. In the portrait, a strip of cloth covered the crease between her strong, lean legs. Other than that, her black hair was long, straight, and unbound. Two Cherokee feathers were woven into her tendrils, and four of her sons surrounded her. Her fifth stared outwards like his mother, though his lips were puckered and fastened around her nipple.

“The portrait of your late wife is enchanting,” Minnie said carefully, her expression neutral. 

The meeting with Christopher Bobwhite was going as spectacularly as expected considering the man had no desire to talk business or politics. All he wanted to do was speak of Madam Hermione Christakos and when John wasn’t being amicably accommodating in conversation, Bobwhite shifted his attention to the duke and duchess.

“Thank you. She, herself, was enchanting. Now where were we? Ah, yes. I have a thousand acres and thousand more in my heart. She’d make a fine lady of the land to both.”

John rolled his eyes which went unnoticed by Bobwhite and Minnie but not my Hal.

Bobwhite was by no means a handsome man, nor was he so offensively ugly. John could not help but think he resembled a sweet sort of winsome swine. He had straw-blond hair and cornflower blue eyes. The man was of average height and portly but was careful in his speech and well-mannered in behavior. He was charming, polite, as well as a funny man. What he lacked in masculine beauty, he made up in charisma, well-landed jokes…and wealth.

Minnie delicately dunked her biscuit into her tea, eyeing Bobwhite speculatively. “You’ve not a single slave on your land? Madam Christakos is an abolitionist and would not tolerate it.”

“When my father died five years ago, and I inherited the land, I freed them. It’s unchristian for a man to own another, Your Grace. Many stayed on…as you can see, and I pay them. The laws are unkind and iffy to free blacks. Several did leave to go elsewhere for a time, and most returned. The few who didn’t, got on with the Cherokee, I heard, yet the tribe hasn’t a solid opposition against slavery. For instance, my Amitola did not share my opinion when we first married but came around to the idea eventually. Can’t say the same for Jesus. Never could get her to like Him enough to commit. Still, I loved her all the same, and it doesn’t bother me Madam Christakos is a Papist.”

“Greek Orthodox, my good man,” John corrected.

Bobwhite shrugged one meaty shoulder, buttering his scone. “Whatever she is, I bet my best horse and my dog she’ll make a wonderful mother to my babies. I saw her at chapel yesterday and knew it then.” He blushed, looking sheepish. “Looking pretty as a sugar-coated angel on Christmas morning, she did.”

Minnie took a long sip from her tea, licked her lips, and gingerly set down her cup. “You are aware your dear cousin Zachariah Bobwhite paid a visit to Mount Josiah this morning, are you not?”

“He did?” Christopher whined, huffing.

“He did?” John questioned, a smile frozen in place.

“But he’s so much more attractive than me.” Bobwhite dropped his butter knife with a clank and folded his arms over his barrel chest looking very put out. “Shoot. He’s taller and richer than me, too. Did he make her laugh at all?”

Minnie patted John on the hand. “You were asleep, sweetie, and your big brother took care of it.”

The way his sister-in-law said your big brother made John's temper flare dangerously.

“She is my employee,” John stated, gifting Hal a significant look. “You should’ve woken me.”

Stare still trained on Bobwhite, Hal stated, “Your cousin has more land. Two thousand acres more in South Carolina to be precise.” He waved his hands dismissively. “When we got to the meat of the matter, he and I, it was revealed he doesn’t share your sentiments on slavery. You need not worry about him, Christopher. He may still attempt a pursual of courting Madam Christakos but, like this morning, will not get farther than the front porch.”

“A proper introduction shall be arranged between yourself and Madam Christakos,” Minnie said, smiling encouragingly at the man, and then looked to John. “Christopher Bobwhite and his sons will join us for dinner this Friday evening.”

John painted a pleased expression on his face, his insides boiling in rage. His mood worsened when Bobwhite’s nursemaid entered the tearoom toting the man’s youngest son who looked like he was molded to life by Raphael himself. The boy was all fleshy roundness and cherub cheeked wearing nothing but a fresh, white clout. Minnie cooed at him, and the boy grinned widely at her, displaying all three of his milk teeth and dimples so deep in his fat cheeks, a penny cent could be slotted in them with room to spare.

“What a superb idea,” John said.

“Come to Daddy, Edmund,” Bobwhite beckoned, and the lad reached for his father, burrowing his angelic face into the man’s neck. Patting him on the back, Bobwhite turned his attention to John. “Teachers. They’re difficult to come by in these parts, and I’m afraid my older boys need more than I can give them. I’m all right in schooling them in their numbers, but I want them to hear and know the likes of Shakespeare, history, and maybe even pick up more French. Their mum taught them a lot before she went, but their pronunciation could use some honing. It’d do them well in talking and trading with their mama’s kinfolk and the like when they're older. Do you think…Madam Christakos would be game to take on a few more? I’ll pay her well.”

“I’ll run the proposition by her,” said Hal. “What amount are you offering?”

“I will talk to her about it,” John said. “She is my employee—”

“Mine, as well, now,” Hal replied sternly.

“She lives on my property—”

“On young William’s property, mind.”

“Then we shall run this proposition through him, I dare say.”

Hal exhaled, taking a drink of his tea to somewhat mask his glare at John. The older Grey brother stared at the younger like he never really matured from being an insolent sixteen year old boy.

“I’ll discuss it with her this afternoon,” Minnie stated warmly to Bobwhite, leaning over to pet Edmund’s syrupy brown tuft and caress his tiny ear. The boy stared at her wide-eyed and plunged his middle and ring finger into his mouth, sucking earnestly. “I doubt it will take much coaxing. It is my understanding she has a fondness for both education and children. What amount are you suggesting paying her per month?”

“I thank you kindly, Your Grace. God has blessed my crop well these past couple of years. For taking on my three eldest sons, I can pay her two pounds per boy per month.”

Minnie poured herself another cup of tea and plopped a sugar cube into it, stirring the steaming liquid pensively. “I will tell her you wish to pay her one pound and twenty pence per child per month. Her answer today will be irrelevant. You will personally repeat your offer on Friday evening the amount you just told me and if your older boys look anything like this strapping young man here, she’ll most assuredly accept your bid.”

John entered the upstairs library precisely two minutes before two o’clock in the afternoon. He had freshened up before climbing the stairs. He took great care to wash his entire person, clean his teeth, recomb his hair, retie his ribbon, and dab the slightest amount of cologne behind his ears. Crossing the threshold, he saw Hermione for the first time that day and felt vainly overdressed. Though she was incredibly lovely no matter the clothing she wore, upon her person was a plain, high-waisted blue apron dress he never laid eyes on before. Her curly tendrils were woven into a thick, long braid that hung heavily over one shoulder. The cracked window welcomed an autumn breeze of circulation in the stuffy room that made Hermione’s loose strands dance.

She looked like a carefree maiden of nineteen who spent her spare time frolicking around the vineyards bordering France and Spain.

Quill in hand, she lectured most passionately on the Viking’s first introduction to England. John wanted nothing more to have her braced against the windowsill as he rammed into her from behind as she continued her lecture of pillaging and raiding.

Henry raised his hand and blurted before she could call on him. “They came upon a monastery in Lindisfarne and killed everyone.”

“The Dane’s and Norwegian’s economy is rooted in the blood and gold of our people,” said Adam lazily, not bothering to raise his hand.

“But they’re Christian now, aren’t they?” Dottie inquired, frowning.

“The current king’s name is Christian,” Willie informed.

Hermione's brown-eyed gaze locking boldly with John’s and turned hostile. Was the expression of fury because of his letter? Had she not liked that it was unfinished? Well, he didn't like that she hadn't immediately sought him out the moment she read it. That had been his plan. Purposefully leave her hanging, so she could extract a further explanation from him immediately.

“You’re a supposedly educated man," she started before pausing for an uncomfortable amount time, "for your king, Lord John, and a travelling one at that. What do you think are the elements making up England’s economy?”

The way she said your king had him arching a brow. “Historically or currently?”

Hermione attempted a smile. “We’re done for today. His lordship is here to teach us German.”

Arguably, Hermione may be a possibly better student than she was a teacher. For the short hour she sat at the table along with the children, she pushed her irritation aside and gave him her undivided attention. While the others drifted in and out of consciousness—Willie and Adam, for the most part. When her hand wasn’t raising every five minutes, the feather of the quill in her hand brushed the underside of her chin in deep thought.

When she wasn’t speaking a thousand words a minute, her top teeth would dig into the flesh of her plump bottom lip, her expression one of enthralled curiosity and hunger to know more. When he asked her to repeat a phrase, she did so carefully and adequately. German wasn’t the most delicate sounding language. Quite so, it sounded violent at times depending on the deliverer of speech. As Hermione made semi-successful attempts in speaking it, she incorporated her authoritarian, sharp, often overbearing fluctuation. The language suited her.

Since John convinced himself she was purposefully torturing him with her erotically studious mannerisms, he corrected her beyond acceptability and until she repeated the words perfectly. Even then, he ended the hour with a longsuffering sigh. “I guess that will be good enough for today.”

“What?”

“It’s three, Madam,” John declared. “We’re done.”

Hermione slowly rose from her seat next to Willie, her stare making John both terrified and excited. “You guess that was good enough. It was perfect. I said it perfectly. Adam, tell your uncle I spoke his ugly German words perfectly.”

“She spoke your ugly German words perfectly, Uncle,” Adam said, happy to please his dangerously pretty governess. The poor young man had spent the hour staring at Hermione’s enrapture face instead of listening to a goddamned thing his uncle taught.

“I will not reward you an accolade you have yet to earn, Madam. Though, I foresee with enough practice—”

Hermione’s quill snapped in her hand, and she zeroed in on Dottie. “You and I are expected for a spot of tea, and then we're off to Lynchburg. Shall we go?”

“I have not dismissed you, yet,” John said.

“You said we were done.”

“I didn’t say you could leave.” Pulses of both unease and, of all things, a perverse thrill shot through him at the hostile look on Hermione’s face. Unwisely, he added, “Children, you are free to go. Madam Christakos and I need to have a private word. I’ll take but a moment of your time and no more.”

To be Continued...

Chapter Text

Richmond, Virginia, USA

Halloween, 2010

Neighbors spilled into his house and made themselves cozy in the sitting room for the Halloween Party. Daniel Granger welcomed them and bent down to kiss his incredibly attractive wife. The white of her stola contrasted enticingly with her slender golden-brown arms. Her coffee-brown hair hung loose and wavy to her shoulders. Her aquamarine blue eyes were lined with black, and mascara thickened her lashes. A subtle, pink gloss shimmered over her lips.

Even after thirty years, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and out of his league by far.

“What is this?” She pulled away when he went in for another kiss, frowning at his best suit he wore. “Where’s my Paris, Danny? Go upstairs and put him on this very moment.”

“You look so beautiful, wife,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her cheek. Her skin smelled of coconut and lime.

“I mean it.”

He gestured to the sticky nametag over his left breast above his orange-yellow rose which stated in his own writing, I’m sorry. “I’m a formal apology, love.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed in murderous contemplation, and his breath caught in his throat because she really did pass down that same expression to their daughter. In fact, Hermione came out of the womb unnervingly silent and sporting that exact look.

“Daniel Hugo Granger, you will march your bottom upstairs and put on your costume I made for you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well, it hardly matters if I wear it. I’m taking the lads out in twenty. I don’t want to be gallivanting all over town in that get-up without my wife to justify it.”

His wife sighed and waved a dismissive hand as she turned away. “Fine."

“It’s just…if you were to go out with us—”

Her eye roll said it all. Of course, she couldn’t go out. They'd been planning this Halloween party for three months. Originally, he was supposed to be hosting with her whilst the Johnsons included Joshua and Isaac in their own festivities. Alas, a month ago, Mrs. Fatima Johnson couldn’t stand to be married to her cheating husband a moment longer—apparently, he had a second family in Savannah. She sent the brood to stay with Grandma for a few days, so they wouldn’t have to witness her taking a signed Jackie Robinson bat to Mr. Johnson's head, maybe killing him or perhaps not. The fire she set in the house certainly accomplished the task.

Surrey…was not without crime or violence or domestic disputes. What unnerved Daniel and Helena Granger most about the incident was how close it was to them. Six doors down from them, literally. Their boys played with Johnsons’ children, attended the same school, and went to the same birthday parties.

“I get it,” Mrs. Jessica Leavenworth had whispered to him and Helena at yesterday’s HOA meeting. “If Chandler ever, and I mean ever, did what Michael did…I wouldn’t go that far, I guess. Fatima will be in prison for, like, the rest of ever. She won’t get to watch her kids grow up. But I get it. When you’re that angry. When you’re that hurt, you just can’t think about anything else.”

At this point, his own wife regarded him in suspicion as if to determine his capability for, not only of adultery, but of fathering other children outside of their marriage. Over thirty years ago, the topic of fertility and babies had been a sensitive one for them. For unknowable reasons, his wife’s God decided Helena Iris Christakos-Granger would have one biological child. Before that child was born, He would make her suffer a heartbreaking hell which included three miscarriages, an ectopic pregnancy, and a phantom pregnancy. All the while, her three sisters’ children tumbled out of their wombs at a rate not unsimilar to popped kernels leaping out of a Orville Redenbacher's stovetop variety .

“I would never,” he had assured, kissing her knuckles. “I love you more than anything in this horrible world. We have our boys, and you gave me the most brilliant darling daughter who looks so like her mum.”

Her chin had wobbled, and tears filled her eyes. “Where is she, Danny?”

“I…” He had been at a loss for words. Bleeding Christ, he didn’t know.

“All right,” he conceded in real-time. “I’ll go upstairs and change. But when I’m out and about and people ask me who I am, I’m going to say Menelaus. My wife has run off to Troy with Paris and God as my witness, I will start a bloody war over it.”

Helena chuckled throatily, leaning in for kiss. She brushed off some invisible hairs and lint from his shoulder. “You do look strapping. Very Double O.”

Bestowing a lingering smooch on his wife’s lips, he murmured, “Where’re the lads?”

“Skittering around here somewhere, I’m sure. Go find them, would you? Take out the trash, too.”

After changing into his wife’s chosen costume, Daniel scoured the house looking for his sons and turning up empty. Not yet perturbed, he went into the kitchen and began making conversation with some of his neighbors.

“Still going to see you for that root canal on Thursday, Gary?” Daniel asked to the buccaneer who was imbibing on Helena’s ouzo-spiked punch.

“There be rum in here?” Gary Brown asked piratically.

As Daniel tied of the trash bag, David Jones—yes, that was his name—came up behind him, beer in hand, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Thanks for the invite, Dan,” David said jovially. “The ex-wife has the kids tonight, so it worked out with Becky and I. Who’s got your kiddos, Gare Bear?”

David, too, was dressed as a pirate but thankfully spared Daniel any silly impressions.

“My sister and her boyfriend. They’ll be doing the rounds over at Windsor Farms. King-sized candy bars and haunted historical houses so fucking scary, the kids’ll be sleeping with Nat and I until Christmas. How about you, Doc? Whose got the boys?”

“I do. I’ve got to put this outside.” Daniel lifted the bag out of the bin. “And go find my lot to take them out.”

“Just stay in,” David coaxed and made a nonsensical, directive gesture. “Send the boys to the trunk-or-treat down at that Mormon church on the corner. They're playing Hocus Pocus and eating chili. They'll be fine.”

Dan shook his head. “It’s their first American Halloween. It’s all they’ve been talking about since August. My niece passed away right after the whole thing with the Johnsons. Hel and I took the kids and had to go back to England for the funeral. Didn't have the time to make other arrangements.”

"What be your plans for Thanksgiving?" asked Gary, continuing on with his ridiculous tone and then immediately dropped it to say, "I'm sorry to hear about your niece. That's rough, man."

"You can't go inviting him. He's a fucking Englishman," David chided in good humor and then sobered. "No, Gary really does do the best Thanksgivings. You should take him up on the offer. He deep fries the turkey and everything. I'd invite you over to ours, but we're heading to Brooklyn and staying with the in-laws. And that is too bad about your niece. Rebekah said your wife mentioned it was cancer, and she was...thirty-seven?"

"Jesus," Gary muttered, shaking his head and refilling his orange and black paper cup.

"Any kids?"

"Two."

"Ah, shit." David shook his head and drained the rest of his beer.

Dan refrained from joining them in drink and changed the topic to last week's junior soccer match, trying and failing not to think of Lysandra. Because with all due respect, before Hermione, there was his niece who'd spent many weekends and holidays with him and his wife when her own parents needed private opportunities adding to the family tree. He played tea-party with her, bought her fancy dresses and dolls, and toted her to Disney World for a surprise and very expensive birthday gift. She'd been one of the most prettiest of little girls. With her toffee-blonde, wavy hair, electric blue eyes, and  smattering of peach-colored freckles dusted her nose. The chemo stripped her of all those things. Even her eyes became a murky and pained-stricken cloudy gray.

Quite honestly, Lysandra and Hermione were near identical in appearance, save for their hues. They could've been sisters. Lysandra favored her Swedish father's Arian coloring where as Hermione was at least marginally polite enough to inherit nothing else but Dan's eye color and wiry curls. The latter she hadn't felt necessary to hold onto in adulthood and exchanged them for more of a relaxed and loopy mane.

His niece and daughter had not been close in their younger years thanks to a six-year gap between them. And there was jealousy and resentment on Lysandra's part towards Hermione. It used to be all about Lysandra for he and Helena. They spoiled her good and proper, favoring her over their other nieces and nephews since she lived so close to them. Once Hermione came into the picture, Dan could admit, it was not all about Lysandra anymore. He and Helena began treating her like they did all the others. They loved her. They still gave her gifts but more modestly priced. They went to several birthday parties and football games but not all of them. But they did send her a hefty check when she finished secondary school despite her being a mediocre student in hopes she would utilize the money for uni.

She hadn't.

If the young woman set a single toe on a educational campus between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, it would've been news to Dan. He and Hel wrote another check when she needed funds for the typically gargantuan Greek wedding she was planning that never happened. When the engagement fell through, she took all the money she and her ex-fiancé had been gifted and buggered off to Canada with her secret girlfriend/maid of honor. Six years later, she returned to England with a four-year degree from Simon Fraser, a different girlfriend, and crippling guilt because of her youthful follies.

At that point, Hermione had briefly buggered off herself to some macabre patch of Hebrides island in fucking December and eloped with her fucking childhood bully who was maybe a  fucking former criminal? The details were hazy. Both on Draco Malfoy's past and the ceremony itself. The rumor was that it had been performed by a kelpie. Jesus Christ, what the hell was even a kelpie?

He and Hel might've forgiven her for the brash decision if Hermione had been pregnant. Like many their age, he and his wife wanted grandkids.

Dan caved into his depression and grabbed a beer from the fridge, downing half of it in three gulps.

There would never be any babies from his daughter.

Zigzagging through the overgrowing crowd, he managed to vacate the house without getting into another conversation. Dumping the trash into the outside canister, he looked around for his boys. He paced the yard, waving to the pirate wenches, Batmen, and a King Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn shuffling up the patio. He then frowned, noticing the silvery-black 2011 Odyssey parked the wrong way against his curb. Seconds after looking at it, the driver’s darkened window lowered just enough to pop out a fist clenching a chicken-fried drumstick.

“Uh…” Dan slowly approached the van.

The window lowered all the way to reveal Blaise Zabini. “Can I interest you in KFC, my good man?”

Dan’s heart leapt into his throat, not at the sight of Blaise but of Harry Potter who sat in the front passenger seat. Dan darted to the side of the vehicle and uselessly yanked on the handle.

“Hey, hey, hey. I’ll open it,” Blaise pressed a button on his steering wheel. At a molasses pace, the side-door slid open—beeping all the way—and revealed Joshua and Isaac in the two middle seats chomping away on a box of popcorn chicken. Sitting there and entranced by the screen slung down from the van’s ceiling. How'd they sneak out, in their respected Halloween costumes no less, without their mum catching them?

“Iron Man.” He dipped his chin at one lad and then repeated in kind to the other. “War Machine."

“Daddy,” they replied in unison.

Daniel maneuvering his 5’10 person into the back bench seat. Once settled, he let out a sigh and finally greeted the two men at the front. “Blaise, it’s good to see you. Harry…where the fuck have you been hiding, lad?”

Isaac gasped. “I’m going to tell Mummy what you said.”

“Swearing causes cavities,” Joshua added solemnly.

“I haven’t intentionally been avoiding you—” started Harry.

“The hell you haven’t,” Daniel argued. “I haven’t seen you since last Christmas, you utter twat. Since then, my daughter—the godmother to your children—has gone missing.”

“This is going to be an epic Halloween night.” Blaise started the car. “You ready for a profanity-filled evening, lads?”

“Yeah!” the boys roared happily.

“We can’t stay out too late. The boys have school in the morning,” Daniel said as he texted The Wife to tell her of Blaise's surprise visit, his new car, and how he and the kids would driving around in it for the evening. Dan did not tell her Harry was with him. Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn't. That depended entirely on Harry and what he had to say.

“Boo!” Joshua bellowed.

“What’s a twat?” chirped Isaac.

“Let me remind you, my good Dr. Granger, that we are in America now.” Blaise Zabini confidently and competitively navigating the suburban streets of Richmond in a minivan, no less like he was born to do nothing else but be a soccer mum. “And let me tell you about American Halloween’s. Shit gets real here.”

“Real poop,” Joshua said, nodding gravely.

“Your beautiful boys, the perfect little brothers to your angelic oldest, deserve to fully experience the hellacious heathenry that is trick-or-treating in the poshest of neighborhoods, trunk-or-treating at the local churches and mall, and let’s not forget haunted houses. The six of us will vandalize any household that dares plop anything remotely healthy into the boys’ treat buckets—”

“We most certainly will not. I have PTA and HOA meetings with these people who are also my patients—”

“—with eggs and toilet paper and possibly feces of the canine variety. Everyone say hello to Hermia!”

Hermia, a pregnant corgi popped up from Potter’s lap and greeted the five males with a happy yip. How had she stayed quiet until then?

“Hi Hermia,” greeted the boys. Isaac offered her a piece of his fried chicken which she eagerly ate. She licked the lad’s greasy fingers, and he giggled.

Maybe they should get a dog. The boys have been asking for one for ages.

But they already had Hermione’s bloody cat. The white Persian might’ve once been a cordial kitten, but since her mum’s disappearance, Cordelia turned into a goddamned nightmare to shelter.

The worst part…

The Cameron's Somali cat took a liking to her not too long ago and…well…

When Daniel laid out his predicament to Howard Williams at the soccer game last Friday, the man said he best take Cordelia on a looooooooong drive to the sticks of West Virginia and lie to his wife and children about it. Claim Cordelia must’ve gone missing or something along the lines. Sometimes cats go missing, and her mistress was gone. It wasn’t uncommon for such things to occur.

Daniel helplessly looked at the adorable, gestating corgi.

No, he couldn’t do that and hated himself for evening thinking about it. Cordelia was more than Hermione’s pet. She was his daughter’s familiar and was only physically displaying her annoyance. Something Daniel most desperately wanted to do, too. He, too, wanted to knock stuff off counters, claw at the curtains and sofas, and piss everywhere. He wanted to scratch and hiss at those who tried to show him affection and comfort.

If…no, when Hermione returned and she found out her familiar hadn’t been properly taken care of, she’d be most upset with him. His daughter loved Cordelia as much as she had loved Crookshanks, and her heart would be irreparably broken if anything terrible happened to her cat.

“Can we please get a puppy, Daddy? One of Hermia’s?” Isaac asked.

“Pretty please,” Joshua added.

“Cordelia is having kittens soon." He rubbed a hand down his face, tears burning his eyes, and he couldn’t help but let out a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t know. I couldn’t protect her. I’m her father, and it’s my bloody job to keep her safe? I’ve never been able to do that. I’ve stopped wishing she’d never been a witch, but God, I’ve wondered why I couldn’t have had magic, too. I could’ve protected her in the way she needed.”

“Dad?” Josh inquired softly.

“Are you okay?” Isaac asked, uncomfortable.

Blaise abruptly veered the car off to the right, took a quick turn into Richmond’s First Baptist Church, and parked the van next to a black SUV. “Looks like we’re trunk-or-treating here, boys. Put your chicken away, and clean your hands and faces with the baby wipes I got you. Put your masks only halfway on, so the local grannies can see at least some of your adorable faces. If they offer you something to eat besides candy—”

“Don’t eat it,” Isaac inserted incorrectly.

“You eat every last bit of it in front of them, understood? And then you top it off with a ‘thank you,’ ma’am, that was delicious.” Blaise poked his head out his window. “And it’s a potluck. Damn. I should’ve been more prepared, but I wasn’t expecting for your father to have a full-on meltdown until the Second Presbyterian Church. Those folks wouldn’t have bat an eye at Colonel Sanders. But come to think of it, they might’ve thought the boys and myself oddities—”

“Zabini,” Harry snaped.

“Potter,” Blaise said distractedly as he stared slack-jawed at the attractive woman shimmying out of the neighboring SUV in her meticulously designed Princess Tiana costume.

Ah, yes. Jasmine Bobwhite-Cameron, the widow of an Iraqi war hero and the mother of two sons and a Somali cat who lived three doors up from him.

Harry gestured violently around them. “How do you know these things?”

“Huh?” Zabini shook his head and snapped himself out his stupor. “Did you honestly think I was going to plop the Grangers into the States without doing some research on this godforsaken country?”

Daniel Granger didn’t find Jasmine Bobwhite-Cameron any less terrifying in her sparkly green dress than in her chic power suite and Prada pumps she sported as a chief prosecutor. He thought back to their conversation from a month ago when he confronted her—drunkenly, mind—about her cat’s actions. His brother-in-law had just texted him that Lysandra had passed and a few minutes later, the vet confirmed Cordelia was harvesting a loading litter. In his intoxicated and mourning state, Dan demanded kitten-support.

“Kitten support?” Her arms folded, and she cocked her head. “What the hell is happening to all that copay money I’m shoving at your fat receptionist when me and my babies come to see you, huh?”

“Kenedee isn't fat, she's pregnant—”

“I never got that fat or white with my boys.”

“Really, this isn’t about her. It’s about my cat. She’s going to have kittens, and I’m pretty sure it was Aladdin who—”

“You don’t have proof.”

“I-I saw him with my Cordelia. They were in my backyard on the diving board. They were… he was…” Daniel choked, cheeks blushing. “Well, you get the idea.”

“Oh, I’ve seen your Cordelia, Dr. Granger. Everyone on this street has seen Cordelia. Struttin’ around and throwing herself at all the toms.”

“She has not! Cordelia is a good girl!” he lied.

She wasn’t a good girl. She was the worst girl ,and a goddamned menace to society.

“And you’re just put out because I didn’t hire your little sister as a hygienist.”

Jasmine's eyes narrowed. “You may have your African adoptees, DDS Granger, but I know what you are. You’re a fucking a racist.” She poked his chest one, two, three times. “Racist, racist, RACIST! My baby sister wants to be a dentist like you! She deserves to have the job experience. Like you, she deserves to have a five-bedroom house with a pool and jacuzzi in the backyard and a built-in barbecue.”

Daniel’s knees buckled, and he erupted into a violent sob which caused Jasmine to jerk backwards and mutter, “What is happening and why?”

“I’m sorry,” he wept, shaking his head. “I’m so bloody sorry. I didn’t hire Jada because…because she reminds too much of my daughter.”

“You have another black kid running around that this overly Caucasian neighborhood should be aware of?”

He shook his head. “No, she is…was biological ours—”

Jasmine murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Was. He said was.”

“Jada and my Hermione are similarly built, and Hermione’s hair was quite like hers. All…” He shaped the air around his head and downwards. “Curly and long like that. They both speak like…like utter brats. I’ll be honest.” Through his tears, Daniel winced. “Jada’s ruthlessly candid personality during her interview didn’t really help her score points. She may want to work on her bedside manner if she’s serious about dentistry as a profession. My daughter became…I’m not exactly sure. She told me she worked as an Interpol liaison, but I think she lied to me. I think that’s all she ever did was lie, and now she’s gone, and I’ll never be able to know the truth about anything.”

“Ooookay,” Jasmine said slowly, her hands hovering over his shoulders like he was cracked glass about to shatter. “Let’s get you back to Helena.”

“Don’t make me go. It’s Book Club tonight. They’re still talking about The Help. They've been talking about it for three weeks already.”

“I was afraid of that. One of the reasons I stopped coming to the meetings.” Jasmine sighed, hands on her hips. She jerked her head towards the porch swing on her deck “All right, sit down. I’ll be back in a few with some hot chocolate. It's too late for coffee, and I don’t have tea, sorry.”

Daniel ambled over to the swing. “Thank you. Do you have sugar-free?"

Jasmine flipped him off as if he insulted her on a personal level and sashayed into the house

She returned with a mug of hot chocolate, and they both swung back and forth saying nothing for quite some time. Jasmine may’ve expected him to further reveal more of his troubles, but he simply took the opportunity to drink bitter-sweet Ghirardelli and miss his daughter in silence. Without his wife and without his sons. Just himself and a neighbor.

Jasmine gave him twenty minutes before she broke the silence. “You said her name was Hermione.”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, an odd expression flickering over her face. “That’s not a name you hear all the time. Not in these parts, anyway. Is that a common name in England?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Looking at it written down, I bet a lot of people had a hard time pronouncing it.” Jasmine tucked her legs beneath her as she stared tiredly at one of her many carved pumpkins paralleling her cobbled walkway. “Just recently, I decided to bite the bullet and look into my family history. I’m far from being a first generation black American. I had a pretty good idea what my ancestry was going to say the further back I went, and I stopped before I got too deep because I was getting too angry. I’m already upset all the time. It comes with the extra melanin mixed with hard-life lessons. Anyway, I have at least three Hermiones in my family.”

“Three?” Daniel sputtered. “I guess I can take comfort that my wife and I were not the first set of horrible parents. There were others who came before who paved the way. God, for the longest time I regretted naming her that. My wife and I thought we were being artistic and clever. It was 1979, and we wanted to be unique and in turn, set our daughter up for all kinds of childhood trauma. Christ, we should’ve just named her Emma or Emily, or something not so easily targeted. How far back did you go before you hit the problematic name?”

“Not far,” Jasmine replied. “Apparently, my own grandma’s middle name was Hermione. I didn’t even know that, and she raised me, too. She was named after her great aunt. Her great aunt was named after another grandmother’s middle name. By then I was hitting pre-Civil War shit, and it got too…”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I mean, I understand why you stopped. History is ugly. Some much more than others. My English ancestors were horrible fucking people.” He wanted to tell her he stopped and restarted multiple times, as well, when studying up on his own family. His latest pause happened when he came to a 1744 journal entry that depicted the brutal rape of his direct ancestor Juliette Le Grange nee Beauchamp by a travelling English solider passing through Mantes-la-Jolie. The rape resulted in the conception of her first born child who would be passed off as Louis Le Grange's child, Juliette's husband. Juliette went on to have five more children, but Daniel stemmed from that eldest son. Biologically, Daniel Hugo Granger was not a Granger at all.

The soldier who had committed such an atrocious act had been a dragoon. His last name Randall. Daniel had not yet steeled his stomach to venture down that undoubtedly wretched rabbit hole.

“ And it’s awful knowing and living with what my country did to innocent people. My French roots aren’t much saintlier. I could apologize to you all day, but it’s not me you really want it from, is it?”

After spell of silence, she asked, “What brought you here to Richmond?”

He laughed sourly into his chocolate. “My family and I were in a dire need of a new and different scene after what happened with Hermione. She's...she went missing several months ago. Back in April.”

“I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

Daniel couldn’t tell her more than that. He couldn't go around saying that he and his family were stashed there for safety reasons. That his missing and maybe dead daughter had enemies. With her gone and unable to perform “blood magic” on her childhood property, the Grangers were vulnerable to attack.

Attack from what, Dan wasn't entirely sure, but it couldn't be good.

“Cordelia was my daughter’s and she’s been acting out by pissing on everything. Back when we were trying to decide where to start again, I had a map of the world on my desk. She came along and took a wee right on the state of Virginia. Helena and I saw it as a sign. Saying it aloud makes it sound like we’re complete nutters, doesn’t it?”

Jasmine smirked in amusement anyway. “My grandma believed in signs, too, so I won’t judge you too harshly.”

Daniel watched Blaise suavely exit the minivan and open the side door behind him to let out the twins who immediately went scampering off with Jasmine’s boys, Darius who was nine and dressed in a Kobe Bryant jersey and basketball shorts. Terrance who was seven and dressed as Mace Wandu from Star Wars, wicked purple lightsaber included.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Blaise said to Jasmine who was about to open the back of her SUV, taking her gloved hand in his and kissing the back of it. “The name is Blaise. It looks like my sons are playing with yours.”

Jasmine yanked back her hand and banged on the back window of her car. “Marcus! Wake your ass up and arrest this fool! He done kidnapped the Grangers’ kids.”

As tempted as Daniel was to see how the scene would unfold with Blaise being pummeled to death by Jasmine’s frightening older brother, Daniel thought he best make himself known.

“It’s all right, Jasmine," he said, waving as he got out of the van. "It’s all right. I’m here. This is Blaise. He’s a good family friend.”

“Uh huh,” she said, unconvinced. The backdoor of her car popped open, and her brother—oiled up and muscular—rolled out dressed like Apollo Creed from the Rocky flicks.

“What you doing here, Dr. Granger?” he asked, grinning.

“Trunk-or-treating,” Blaise pitched before Daniel could get there. He patted the older man on the shoulder. “I got the boys, no problem. You and Potter chat. Get your feelings out. Have a good manly cry. Beat the shit out of him if you need to. Hermione wouldn’t mind, and Ginny would absolutely love it. She’s as big as a beached whale, three days overdue, bloated to boot, and can’t do it herself.”

“Good to see you, Commissioner Bobwhite,” Daniel said, momentarily ignoring Blaise.  "My, my. Let me see those pearly whites.”

Marcus’ proud smile broadened further.

“Wonderful. Has the swelling gone down any?” Daniel asked.

“Almost all back to normal. You did me a solid with squeezing me in for that surgery, Doc."

Daniel was about to go back inside the van, but Jasmine stopped him, touching his arm. “Hey, after this, we’re going to a haunted house my cousin is putting on at Windsor Farm. Jada’ll be there. Sounds like Patricia didn’t last the summer. Maybe you could look passed a couple things and, I don’t know, give my baby sis that hygienist job.”

“Dr. Daniel Granger would be pleased to help you out in any way you need,” Blaise said. “As will I, your beautiful majesty. My name is Blaise Zabini. Like your brother, I’m in law enforcement. I make pennies but own a humble olive oil company in Tuscany that I profit six figures annually from. I also breed insanely expensive corgis as a side hustle for the Queen and all her BFFs among the gentry and the UN. I also think you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“Well, damn, you almost sound too good to be true, Blaise Zabini.” Jasmine's eyes narrowed in distrust. “You have kids? I mean of your own. Not someone else’s you claim, so you can hop into a single mom’s panties.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

Jasmine snorted. “If I let you take me out on a date, Blaise Zabini, I want you to be sure about being a daddy.”

“I can be a daddy to your babies if you like. I can be a daddy if you should have more babies.”

The amusement left her features, and she folded her arms. “I don’t want more babies.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“We’d make a stunning little girl. We could name her…Tiana.”

Jasmine’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Boy, you are all kinds of foolish."

Daniel returned to inside the van, this time taking the driver’s seat to be closer to Harry. The younger man was miserably slumped in his seat watching videos of Hermione on his phone.

“It’s so beautiful here, Harry. You and Ginny must visit before she gets too far along” she said to him, breathless in her speech. Her face was flush, tanned, freckled, and damp. Beautiful and so like her mum. Hermione’s riotous mane was secured tightly in a braid, and she had a Camelbak pack on her shoulders. In the video, she paused to sip from her tube connecting to the bladder. Thick and lush greenery surrounded her. She did a wobbly 360, surveying her surroundings for Harry’s benefit. Draco appeared in the camera’s view, and he came up behind her. Kissing her neck, cheek, and then lips.

“I love you,” she told him adoringly.

“I love you more,” he told her, smooching her on the lips again.

"For fuck's sake," Harry muttered.

Hermione nuzzled her husband's pointed nose with her little cute one. “Impossible.”   

A feral consecution of curse words spouted out of Harry's mouth that burned even Dan's ears.

“He killed her, didn’t he?” he asked quietly. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding us and sending Blaise to take care of us. You can’t lie to me, Harry. You are by far the worst liar I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

Harry flicked off the screen. “She’s alive. I just don’t know where she is. I planned to come tell you personally when I got a lead, but that hasn’t happened.”

“You know more than you’re letting on, lad. Tell me.”

Taking off his glasses, he smeared a hand down. “I’m trying to spare you further frustration.”

“What could you possibly say that would make things worse aside telling me my daughter is dead?”

“Jesus, here goes nothing then. Do you remember when Hermione was in Third Year? You and your wife signed off on a magical device that allowed her to attend all her classes.”

Daniel racked his brain in trying to remember that far back…and frowned unhappily. “The bloody time trinket? Helena and I did no such thing. We told Hermione no. We understood her desire to advance her knowledge, but time-travel was out of the fucking question to do it. I recall she then gave us a two-hour lecture, index cards included, on why we should allow her to use it. We were charmed, but the answer was still no. When she threatened to emancipate herself, run away to the Weasleys, and never coming home again; we were uncharmed. We weren’t exactly sure how to ground her because we never had to before, so we made the joint decision of not signing off on the permission slip for her to visit Hogsmeade.”

“I…” Harry erupted into a mad sequence of giggles. “I had no idea you and your wife were capable of saying no to her.”

Daniel gave him an affronted look. “Hermione was a good girl. We hardly had to—Stop laughing, you absolute cock!”

“I’m sorry. I’m just realizing that a thirteen-year-old Hermione forged her parents’ signatures twice, so she could be allowed to handle a very dangerous item for the simple sake of her secondary education and to make trips to the local village. I'm wondering how she did it. McGonagall was able to sniff out forgeries a mile away.”

Heart sinking into his souring stomach, Daniel couldn’t understand why Harry was laughing. None of this was funny. He had recently come to terms that his daughter continually lied to him and her mum all her adult life. Discovering she did so before she even turned eighteen made him quite ill.

“Why bring up that time trinket?” Daniel asked, clearing his throat.

Harry sobered, wiping his eyes, and Daniel figured he wasn’t laughing strictly because he found Hermione’s adolescent shenanigans amusing. He could either have a laugh about something that happened seventeen years ago, or he could cry because he missed his best friend.

“I think…We think. Well, the Department of Mysteries, which is one of the departments of the Ministry of Magic, thinks Hermione fell through a time portal, and she’s stuck there. In some unknown year.”

After an hour, the Granger and Cameron kids returned to their respected cars, their bellies chockfull of homecooked food and Reese’s Pumpkins. In the minivan, Blaise followed close behind Jasmine’s SUV. On the way to the haunted house, the boys showed Daniel their haul, and if he’d been in a better state, the caramel candies and the rainbow-colored ones would’ve been confiscated due to their high-sugar content. Instead, he just stared at their bounteous jack o’ lantern baskets and tepidly wished for death.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a home belonging to Jasmine Bobwhite’s cousin. It still sported a modestly-sized colonial design, though the house clearly had been renovated at least four or more times since it was built. The property may’ve even been a part of a smaller plantation but was no longer. Homes of various ages and styles lined the street.

There was a line of people waiting their turns to enter the haunted house. Harry stayed in the car to call his wife, and Daniel paid a discounted fee for himself and his boys to take the tour. The queue was slow moving, and the boys were tired. By the time they entered the house, Blaise had Isaac asleep in his arms and Daniel had Joshua who was shy of giving up the ghost.

Daniel walked behind Blaise, Jasmine, her children, and Marcus. Not hearing at all what the gay, vampiric butler had to garble at them. He watched Blaise flirt like mad with the woman and noticed her warming up to him with each passing minute. Daniel considered warning her that Blaise was a very naughty boy and probably had a girlfriend in each European country, but he couldn’t tear himself out of his own head.

Time portals.

His daughter fell through one.

What the bloody fuck was happening in the world?

The butler disappeared in a cloud of gusty, sparkly smoke and was replaced by Jada Bobwhite dressed like a murdered flapper. She guided them to the second level via the spiral staircase. When they reached the top, she gestured to the paintings and portraits mounted on the wall. Eerily, she spoke of the Grey family portrait in the middle. The family had once been guests of the home in the 1770s, and it was speculated Lady Grey was a witch of the darkest arts who dug up graves, feasted on live children, and used their bones for potions and enchantments. She had ensnared an English duke's younger and ever-so naïve brother by nefarious and satanic means as to obtain wealth and status.

An artist, a reputed seer and the daughter of a confirmed white witch, managed to contain the witch's evil spirit within the frame. Through white magic, she trapped the dark witch's abominable, irredeemable soul forever. For the last two centuries, the portrait had been hidden away in the wine shed in pristine condition. Since the remounting on the second-level hallway, people have claimed to have seen Lady Grey blink, sigh, and even smile. 

Blaise shifted Isaac who peeled his eyes open and stared listlessly at the wall. His head sprang up from Blaise's shoulder, and he belted out, “Hermione!”

“Shhhhh,” said almost everyone in the tour group.

Joshua jerked awake in Daniel’s arms at the sound of his brother’s exclamation. “Huh?”

“Joshie, look! It’s Hermione!” Isaac pointed his small finger at the painting on the wall.

“Holy Salazar, bless my perfect arse,” Blaise murmured reverently, depositing Isaac on the floor to fish for something in his coat pocket. His fingers fumbled with his phone, and it dropped to the floor with a loud thud. He swore colorfully and swooped down. After several more seconds of fumbling, he took a flashing picture of the painting and then five more.

In the continuous splashes of digital light, Lysandra was the first figure Daniel saw within the frame. Elfin and seemingly six, she stood between two men, one of them a red-coated, British officer. Each of her tiny hands were in their much bigger ones. Floppy curls cascaded passed her back in shades of honey, flaxen, coffee, and toffee. Her blue eyes, not quite electric, but the shade of a hot, summer sky stared out at him in a shrewd and familiar sort of fashion.

Curled contently at hem of her black lace mourning dress laid a white Persian cat.

Perhaps out of self-preservation, Dan's conscious would not yet allow him to fully register the face of the woman in the onyx silk sitting on the chair close to the fireplace. What his mind directed him to was the corpulent lad on her lap. Pink and fat, he was remarkably serene for a morose-themed family portrait. His platinum curls haloed his cherubic head, and his steel gray eyes hungrily peered upwards to his mother's face. Like she had all the answers and was all he would ever need in his life.

Finally, Dan's focus settled on the woman...

For the love of God, it was his Hermione. The moment his brain and body finally accepted the visual in front him, he fell to his knees. The last thing he saw before fainting was the date and artist on the bottom, right corner.

March 1774

B.E.R.F.M.

Chapter Text

Mount Josiah, Virginia

1768

“You said we were done.”

“Yes, but I didn’t say you could leave.” Pulses of both unease and, of all things, a perverse thrill shot through him at the hostile look on Hermione’s face. Unwisely, he added, “Children, you are free to go. Madam Christakos and I need to have a private word. I’ll take but a moment of your time and no more.”

“Forgive me, Lord John, I haven’t a moment to spare. If you’ll excuse me.” Hermione curtseyed and left the library, her steps quick to catch up to Dottie. Their hands joined, and John watched them both head towards the stairwell. He followed behind them, intent to stall her and have more words with Hermione, damn the consequences and the audience. When he reached the top of the banister, he saw Hal marching slowly up the steps. Hermione and Dottie saw his struggling for breath and stopped.

“Daddy, are you all right?”

“Do you need assistance?” Hermione asked, hands outstretched.

Hal paused at the landing, resting with his hand on the polished oak railing and smiled. “I’m quite well, my gem. Thank you, Madam, I just need to catch my breath. Never mind me. I hear you and the ladies are making an outing to Lynchburg.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small purse and handed it to Dottie with a wink. “There should be enough in there for your new Christmas dress and a book.”

“Oh, Daddy, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She dashed to her father and hugged his middle, stamping her shoes in excitement. “You’re the best daddy ever!”

Affectionately, Hal patted Dottie’s blonde head. “And if your mother tries to dissuade you from getting either one, remind her like you reminded me that you've been a very good girl.”

Dottie nodded with upmost seriousness. “I’ve been a very good girl.”

“You’ve kept to your reading despite the inconsistent lessons and haven’t been up to mischief in quite some time.”

A quick and queer look flickered over Dottie’s face which John caught but Hal didn’t.

“Yes, Daddy, I haven’t,” she lied.

“But you have to give me one thing in return if you truly want that new dress and new book.”

“What?”

Hal crouched down and tapped his cheek. Dottie giggled, kissing him and hugged his neck. “Thank you, Daddy. What color should the dress be?”

“Hm,” Hal said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Periwinkle.”

Hermione, who had been amusedly observing the exchange, stiffened at Hal’s answer.

“Downstairs when you’re ready Dottie,” Hermione said, her voice oddly thick.

John wanted to go after her, but Hal had clearly been on his way up to see him. A creased and open letter was in one of his hands. Once Dottie skittered down the steps and was out of earshot, his brother stayed on the landing and mopped the sheen from his brow with a white cloth.

“Damn my eyes, John. I come bearing difficult news.”

Hermione spent her Monday afternoon in Lynchburg watching Louisa, Minnie, and Dottie paw through the best patterns, fabrics, and catalogues based out of Richmond that the homely town of Lynchburg had to offer. They returned to Mount Josiah late in the evening, well after dinner, athirst and their bellies empty. While their purchases were taken to their respected bedrooms, Caroline served them a potato-ridden corn chowder with speckles of bacon all smothered in gooey, sharp cheese. Fresh buttered cornbread on the side.

“It’s all about corn here,” Louisa drawled, daintily shoveling a spoonful of chowder into her mouth. “So interesting and versatile."

“Occasionally, Hal would arrange for a small shipment of ears while in England along with other novelty items. Incredibly expensive and we were unable to successfully grow a decent crop at Argus with them. This, however, I can swim in. It’s so fresh and sweet. Caroline, this is remarkable. So delicious, thank you,” Minnie said to Caroline who was filling her glass with more wine.     

“Yes, thank you,” Hermione said to Caroline for the seventh time that evening. She felt she had to overcompensate since Louisa was doing an impressive job in pretending the woman was nothing more than an interactive piece of third-hand furniture.

“Have you ever had corn before you came to the colonies, Hermione?” Louisa asked.

“Oh, um…no, I can't say I have. I like this very much.” Of course, she had but Hermione Christakos hadn't. A memory bubbled into view of herself, Draco, and Blaise taking a long holiday in the summer of 2006 through various American states. While bumbling about in rented cars and hopscotching by portkey, they sampled both Muggle and magical culture. Which include chowing down on all sorts of interesting cuisine. One of the items had been a grilled corn on the cob which was doused in a salted honey-butter, parmesan cheese, and crushed Flaming Hot Cheetos.

It had been diabolically delicious.

Right up there with the fried macaroni and cheese bites and fudgy pecan pie.

Caroline took away her empty bowl, and Abigail swept in to replace it with an upside-down plumb cake with cream.

“Lord John suggested this for tea earlier,” Abigail supplied. “He even helped Mama and I make it.”

“My brother-in-law does make a good sponge,” Minnie said, happily taking a bite and rolling her eyes in exaggerated ecstasy. “Oh, my God, he really does have a way with it, doesn’t he? A little heavy on the cardamon, but the sweetened cream really helps.”

Louisa nibbled a chunk of the cake from her fork and then set it down, pushing the plate away. “No, I don’t think I like that. The spices are too strong for my palate.”

As far as colonial-era cakes went, Hermione supposed it was divine. The crumb was moist and fluffy, and the spices were tongue-tingling pungent. Like her mother and unlike her father, she appreciated flavor and all the ways the world produced it.

“Is that…” Hermione cocked her head and ran her tongue on the top of her mouth, the ridges pressing the crumbs into her tastebuds. “That’s vanilla.” She straightened in her chair and gaped at Abigail. “There’s vanilla in this.”

Minnie tossed Hermione a curious glance. “I’m not sure what surprises me more, Hermione. That you know the term vanilla—for it is rather new—or that you are familiar enough with the taste to identify it. It is extremely rare and incredibly expensive. If I wasn’t enjoying myself so much, I’d half a mind to give John a beating for wasting it on a plain dessert. Did you come by vanilla often whilst in Athens?”

“I had sampled some while in Hispaniola.”

The duchess arched a brow and the corner of her full mouth twitched downward before casting a dewy and loving gaze to her daughter who had all but fallen asleep in her chowder. “My baby has had a long day. Abigail, would you be a dear and fetch my husband, so he can put her to bed? Is he and John brandy-swimming in the office again?”

Abigail bowed. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but His Grace and Lord John departed for Alexandria some hours ago. I believe he left a note for you in your chambers.”

The three conscious women frowned at the news, and Minnie then massaged the space between her brows. When she exhaled, it was through an un-ladylike yawn. “Yes, all right. Thank you.”

Like that morning, another folded note greeted Hermione when she retired to her chambers. A fragrant azalea was smashed into the crease of paper. This was clearly John’s attempt on preying upon her femininity by displaying thoughtful romanticism.

Expecting another apology, Hermione frowned when reading a section from a Ben Jonson poem instead.

Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.

At the bottom of the passage, John wrote:

We must speak, Hermione. It is of great importance and well beyond the bounds of your forgiveness towards my childish behavior . I would be ever so pleased if you joined me for tea in my office Friday afternoon. I would ask for your company sooner, but my brother and I had to make leave for Alexandria. I beg you make yourself available for a private discussion regarding Willie’s education that day.

With affection,

John

This time, Hermione did not throw the letter in the fire but stowed it away in her dream journal before jumping into bed. She tried to keep her mind clear of what John wanted to discuss with her.

No.

No, Hermione wouldn’t stress herself out by overreading between the lines.

The next four days she maintained focus on the children and lessons, taking ginger notes of their strengths, weaknesses, personalities, and behaviors. Dottie was the better student out of all of them. Willie came in at distant second, for he was intelligent but easily distracted by Adam and Henry who were trying to include him in their plotting of arranging a duel against a pervert named Caldwell.

Adam and Henry reminded her a lot of Harry and Ron at that age. Hormonal, self-absorbed, overly curious, quick to anger, and lost without an antagonist to make life interesting. 

At various times throughout the days, she caught Abigail and Charlotte interchangeably listening into her lectures, their lovely faces pressed into the ajar door and the frame. Hermione pointedly ignored this and thought of what Minnie had told her yesterday when they were in Lynchburg. Christopher Bobwhite’s children needed schooling and may offer her a sum to teach them. His younger ones had yet to learn their letters and numbers. While Hermione taught them to read and write and count, she could be doing the same for Abigail and Charlotte.

When Friday came and Hermione readied herself for the day, she made a poor attempt in not putting too much thought or magic into her appearance. In the end, she exited her bedroom, late for breakfast, in a transfigured soft and velvety, rose-pink dress and a tight-crown braid. Her legs and underarms were thoroughly shaved...as was another part of her anatomy. And she may or may not have filched a glob vanilla caviar from the kitchen and mixed it with a bit of raw alcohol to dab behind her ears and above the inner part of her knees.  

Her morning with the children went slower than cold molasses and hates herself for how eager she is to see John that afternoon. Following their lunch, they partook of a brisk walk around the estate. Once again and by total accident, their party prevented Charlotte and Abe enjoying a private picnic together in the stable.

For twenty or so minutes, Hermione brushed and loved on Barbie in her new stall that was on the far diagonal away from the Friesian horse.

“He got over excited and hurt her last night. You see that on her rump? He bit her.” Abe said, coming up beside Hermione and gesturing to pink, oozing wound on Barbie’s hide.

Dottie gasped and glared at Beetle. “What a brute!”

“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry,” Hermione crooned softly, stroking Barbie’s muzzle and glaring over her shoulder at Beetle. “Was he terribly beastly with you? How ill-mannered of him. I hope he was dealt with appropriately.”

At hearing this, Willie strode over to Beetle’s stall and lifted his chin. “You and I, sir, will be having words later. I shan’t be having such savagery on my property.”

Barbie licked to her hearts' content at the sticky sugar lump from Hermione's palm

“We will have to stable her at Master Bobwhite’s for a time,” Abe said. “Three months, maybe, to see if she is with foal. We will try to stud Beetle with one of the others in the meantime.”

Several minutes later, Abigail came running at full speed into the stable with a charging ram hot on her heels. Abe would’ve handled the situation splendidly if hadn’t been for Adam who nobly, and quite suavely, removed a slingshot from the pocket of his vest and one of his brass buttons from the same garment. With impressive accuracy and high velocity, he nailed that bloody goat in the forehead. The creature’s front legs buckled, and he teetered down horns first into a pile of horse excrement.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Abigail gasped, her sister coming to her side. They clung to one another, and she swallowed before panting out her appreciation. “Thank you, my lord. You saved me. That damned thing had been on me since the Lynch’s.”

“Language, Abby,” Charlotte chided as one would shush a whimpering baby.

Adam strolled up to her, offering her his hand. In the simple gesture, he expressed the maturity of a true and mature gentleman as opposed to a boy who had scribbled a penis and balls on his little sister’s paper only days prior. “Let me help you to a seat where you can catch your breath and gather your bearings, my lady.”

Abigail put a hand to her chest and then hesitantly accepted Adam’s with her other. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Call me Adam.” He brought his lips to the back of her hand.

“I couldn’t possibly, my lord."

“What were you doing all the way out there by yourself?” Charlotte asked quietly, staring at Adam like he might at any second rip off her sister’s clothes, rape her, and set her on fire. Free or not, if he did, neither she nor Abe could do anything about it except join her in death.

Mercifully, Adam was not that sort of boy and was cut from a different cloth. Despite being a pampered little pooch since birth, Hermione knew his parents instilled a few shreds of human decency into him.

“I went with Daddy to deliver tobacco, but the roofs are leaking in the slave cabins. Winter’s coming, so he stayed behind to help patch ‘em up. He knew Mama would need my help with the big dinner this afternoon, so he sent me home. One of the Lynch’s goats got out and started chasing me.”

“And you came across no one else that could help you?” Hermione asked. She wasn’t at all familiar with the area, but she did know there were five plantations between Mount Josiah and the Lynchs'.

Abigail sniffled and shrugged one shoulder. “Well…a few of the Caldwell boys saw me, but they just laughed and made fun of my…” She tucked and folded at the collar of her blouse, her eyes avoiding everyone’s. “They thought I ran funny and said the crassest things about me.”

Or they ruthlessly berated her sprinting form due to her unbound and budding breasts, Hermione assumed.

“Caldwell!” Adam exclaimed, infuriated. In a dramatic flourish, he unsheathed his four-inch whittling knife and flung it across the stable where it burrowed into the belly of skittering fat rat. The momentum was strong enough to launch the rat and mount it to the nearby wall where it died a noisy and oozy, ten-second death.

“Oh, my God,” Hermione gasped out, the lunch in her stomach churning nastily. And then again for good measure, she repeated, “Oh, my God! Adam!”

“Holy shit!” Willie hissed.

“Language,” Dottie and Charlotte both admonished.

“Nice,” Henry relayed calmly and with the sort of pride a distracted parent would have have in their stunted, adolescent child who figured out how to boil water in a kettle. “But I dare say, we may have a problem.”

“Rats,” Abe sighed. “This is not good.”

“The Caldwells,” Adam stated.

“Shoot. If there’s one, there’s more,” Charlotte lamented.

“What are we going to do?” asked Abigail.

“Kill them,” Dottie replied.

“Obviously,” Willie added.

“The Caldwells or the rats?” Hermione inquired hesitantly.

Beside her, Willie stood to his full height and puffed out his chest. His slanted blue eyes met with Adam’s hooded ones. “Both, Madam,” they said in unison.

At a quarter passed the last hour of lessons, Charlotte sheepishly tiptoed into the room asking forgiveness for interrupting lessons, but Willie was needed in Lord John's office. Hermione excused her student and carried on with her lecture on the historical and gory relationship between England and the Vikings. With John's absence and for the time being, Hermione simply utilized the last hour in allowing Adam to give his report on The Royal Slave. His seventeen-minute summarization was shockingly riveting and impassioned, and by minute two, Hermione knew he hadn't written a single word of it. The debrief originated from his mother. Instead of cutting him off and reprimanding him for his obvious cheating, she let him carry on and silently made plans to talk with Minnie.  When the report concluded, Hermione gathered her notes and followed the three children out of the library.

“Your uncle and I have to discuss a few things over tea this afternoon in his office. I’m sorry. I’m afraid we won’t be able to have tea together today,” she told Dottie. Tuesday and Thursday, they had their tea party, just the two of them, and it was perfectly delightful. It was little wonder Dottie wished to spend another afternoon together. “But maybe you can join us for the start of it?”

“Why not all of it? Wille's there now. Is it about him?”

“Lord John and I have very important matters we need to go over. Things about Willie and his future. It wouldn’t be fair or right for you to be there for all of it, but I'm sure your cousin and uncle wouldn't mind a little of your company.”

“Can’t you postpone tea with him?”

“I think it’s very important,” she said. “I think a part of it has something to do with why he and your father went away to Alexandria for a few days.”

“Will it be stuffy and boring having tea in his office?”

Hermione contemplated the hair-removal and exfoliating she participated in earlier that day in preparation for how tedious tea in John's office would be. “I’m afraid so, and I don’t think he invited Miss Beatrice to lighten the mood, either.”

“Figures. Will there at least be cake?”

“Only if it’s soaked in brandy, I imagine.”

Exhaling a world-weary sigh, Dottie nodded in grave acceptance. “All right, I’ll come.”

Hermione knocked on the closed door and invited herself and Dottie inside where they found John dozing painfully in his chair, his body twisted uncomfortably and mouth open just enough to catch a fly or two. Willie wasn't anywhere to be seen. At their entering, John jerked awake and snapped his attention at the clock and and painted on expression of apologetic resignation. He got up and circled the desk, fumbling over a fold in the rug. Hermione took in his disheveled, exhausted, and unwashed presence. Smudges of darkness circled his eyes, and a scanty film of oiliness sheened from his hairline down to the expanse of his forehead. Though Hermione couldn't detect an odor of him at the distance she kept from him, she imagined he stank of a vomitous, sebum stench and spilled brandy on soiled linen.

“Forgive me, Hermione…” He glanced down at Dottie in surprise and then corrected himself. “Madam, I apologize for my state. I had planned to wash up when I arrived home, but it seems the day has run away from me.”

The ribbon for his queue was missing. His hair was a breath away from unravelling completely. Hermione placed her hands on Dottie’s shoulders, the girl clearly befuddled by her usually kempt uncle.

“Is something wrong?” Dottie asked, her voice heartbreakingly small.

“I’m well enough,” John said for his niece’s benefit, though he signaled his surrender with a dismissive wave of hand. “His Majesty has requested my presence in Boston—”

Something akin to a bludger hit her square in the chest; the invisible momentum of the revelation so strong, she even stumbled backwards. "What?"

"I shall be leaving—"

“Dottie, I need you to give your uncle and I some privacy.” Hermione sounded like a wounded pet at a park who fell victim to a stray rugby ball.

“But aren't you retired, Uncle?” Dottie whined, stamping her tiny foot.

“An honorable officer is never truly retired, my sweet. A situation has risen, and the king needs more men there,” John said, kneeling to eye-level with the girl.

“The king can go fuck himself,” Hermione seethed, steering Dottie away from John and back towards the door. “I’m sorry, Dottie. You’ll have tea with your mum and Lady Dunsany because in about ten seconds, the only words I’ll be capable of speaking are of the four-letter variety.”

“I can say them, too. Fuck!” Dottie spat and the blushed in mortification at her own intrepidity.

“Dorthea Grey, that word is not for your use. I hear you say it again, I will promptly alert your father, and you will receive a lashing on your bottom,” John threatened.

“Madam Christakos said it.”

“I assure you; Madam Christakos will not go unpunished.”

“Are you going to lash her bottom?” she asked innocently.

A series of emotions rippled over John’s face, and Hermione was able to successfully shove Dottie out of the office, so she couldn't see his depraved jollity at the imagery. With the door bolted, she whirled around to face him before he could do something tawdry to her hind quarters. Spine pressing against the polished and pricy mahogany, she eyed him as she would a hollowed, teetering Jenga tower.

"You're retired," she told him.

"I know."

"Why not your brother? He isn't."

"I'm...Hermione, can't you see that I'm going in his place? His health dwindles, especially in the colder seasons—"

“Boston!” she screeched.

"I know."

"Boston! For Christ's sake, we’ve already had this discussion about Massachusetts. It’s a blood bath there.”

“It’s just a handful of troublemakers throwing tantrums. His majesty’s military has dealt with far worse.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. Pushbacks of historical proportions are taking place. I know what that Samuel Adams has asked of Massachusetts and all the colonies. Really, John? Think of Willie. Think of what it would do to him if something were to happen.”

“I've spoken to him already about it. He was upset but understands the call of duty. In time, he will be all right—”

“No, he won’t. One more dead parent for him, and he’s going to grow up to be an honest-to-God lunatic on a Jack the Ripper sort of level.”

“On a what sort of level?”

“Never mind, you just can’t go.” She resisted grabbing the tails of his poorly knotted cravat and choking him with it. “If you do, I’ll run away.”

“And abandon my boy?”

Her heart constricted at 'my boy.' “You know I'll take the brat with me. Dottie, too.”

“Hal would die from a broken heart, and her mother would hunt you down, disembowel you, and harvest your blood to maintain the red in all her burgundy gowns. She has several. Out of curiosity, where would you take them? If not to New Jersey like you last planned.”

“The future.”

“I see. And what is it like?”

“It’s convenient.”

“Sounds positively enchanting. May I...?” He carefully hovered his palm over the dip in her waist. "I know what you said, but may I hold you? Please. I have missed you so."

She clasped her hands behind her back and locked her knees to keep herself from falling into him like a besotted ninny. "That sounds like a personal problem, doesn't it?"

"Hermione, really."

"Allow me to retain a little pride, please," she said, as if she hadn't spent the majority of her morning primping for him.

John chuckled, risking touching one of her loopy tendrils that had escaped her crown braid. Pinching and pulling at the end of it, the lock of hair stretched to capacity, and he watched in fascination as it sprung up and recoiled. “Here, I strive to serve God and king with honor and honesty, yet I confess to delay my departure. I’ll take my leave next Saturday when I should’ve not even returned from Alexandria. As luck would have it—and a bit of money— I managed to facilitate a place on one of the last ships of the season that’ll get me to New York. I’ll travel by carriage the rest of the way.”

“Write to the good folk of your king’s military and explain to them you are dealing with a rat infestation. You may have the plague and until further notice, you can’t leave Virginia. Be honest. You’re running away, so you don’t have to deal with it.”

“Ah, yes. I’m exchanging a lukewarm fuss for the clean and crisp ambiance of Boston.”

“It’s so late in the season. If the voyage doesn’t kill you, you’ll freeze to death the moment you get off the ship.”

“I’ll pack accordingly, you needn't worry. And if all goes well, I'll be back before you know it.”

“You won’t be back until spring. Just in time for my May wedding. Remember, I’m officially meeting one of the candidates tonight.”

“If you really are prepping for a bloody wedding when I get back—”

“I’ve already started.”

“Have you now?” he said, brows lifting.

“Mmmhmm. Monday, Lady Dunsany, the Duchess, and Dottie—three against one—insisted I pick fabric and a pattern now for my wedding dress in case there is a shortage on materials which…I imagine there will be. Winter is coming. The ports are stemming the flow on imports and exports. Taxes are high. They may get worse. I was told I needed to be ahead of the game, and they weren’t going to get off my back until I made a choice.”

“And…what did you choose? Explain to me in detail. I want to know exactly what my lover will be wearing when she swears herself to another. What type of fabric?”

“Um…” Her lashes lowered. “I first chose wool and cotton, but Lady Dunsany insisted on silk and lace.”

“Did you choose a pattern?”

“Yellow-gold roses.”

“And the base color? Lavender, pink…periwinkle?”

Hermione flinched and felt her cheeks bloom hotly, and she ducked her head. “No. I chose white.”

“White. Out of all the possibilities, you settled on white?”

 “I like white,” she said. “And one day, it will be the choice color for brides.”

“Are you saying you’re going to bring it into fashion?”

“No.”

“Did you wear white when you married your late husband?”

"Um...no."

There was a knock on the door.

“It’s tea,” John said.

Opening the door, Hermione grabbed the tea tray from Abigail, thanking her. John closed the door, and Hermione set the tray on the coffee table.

“I’m still cross with you,” she said, removing the cloche and catching a strong whiff of brandy from one of the spiced loafs. “If you think you can charm your way back into my good graces, you are mistaken. With what you said in the carriage in addition to your unfinished letter, and then how you spoke to me at the end of lessons Monday. Don’t think for a second all is forgiven because you’re gallivanting off to Boston to be a bloody honorable sod for your silly sovereign. If anything, I’m more upset with you. If it weren’t for Willie, I would think this an opportunity for you to run away from any possible sewn seeds.”

Regret enveloped her when he looked like she just insulted his proud plumb upside-down cake and his mother.

“You truly think so lowly of me that I would abandon a child of mine? I adopted one who wasn’t and love him as if he were. I know I did not react good naturedly in the carriage on Sunday, and siring progeny out of matrimony won’t benefit either one of us; but hear me now when I say that I will love our baby if we should have one.”

Hermione’s eyelid twitched at our baby.

“Like you, I do not wish to remarry,” he affirmed, “but I will not let him or her be born a bastard, Hermione. I was raised to be illustrious and dignified. I am a Lord. Expectations are set upon my shoulders.”

“I would ask nothing of you. I’d step away quietly, and no one would have to know—”

“I would know!”

“You'll be gone, so how would you?” she countered.

“I’ll know.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I will. I'll sense it."

"Don't be absurd. Even if you did, you'll be too busy wintering with those Sons of Liberty to do anything about it." Wishing to sit down, Hermione shuffled over to the chaise lounge facing a shelf of books, and John immediately joined her. Their proximity was close. His shoulders brushed her own and soon their pinky fingers did, too. "I'm sure your brother would arrange passage for me to wherever I wanted to go to keep the scandal under wraps."

"That shows you don't know him at all," John said, his tone carrying a slight edge to it. "If you are with child, whether or not he likes you, he'll lock you in a room if he has to and force us to marry by gunpoint the moment I return."

"He can't do that."

"Minnie can testify otherwise."

"He locked her in a room?" Hermione couldn't imagine anyone locking up Minerva Grey and not regretting it immediately.

"No, but he may've coerced her into matrimony."

Hermione relaxed. Coerced, absolutely not. No one coerced that woman to do anything. She married Hal because she wanted to, and Hermione didn't even require the evidence of their four children's existence to see it. She was barmy over him, and he was mad as a hatter over her. 

"I'll say it's not your fault, John. I'll say it's someone else's."

"He won't believe you. He knows about us."

"You told him?" she squeaked, abashed.

"I accidently alluded to something intimate about your person after a brandy too many. I'm sorry. I really am. But I assure you, Hermione, he won't tell anyone."

"He'll tell his wife.”

"He won't tell anyone but his wife."

Hermione quieted for a moment and then primly reminded him, “You promised you would let me go when I said it was time."

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. On Saturday night. Don’t you remember?”

“What I recall is you showing me your quim and then trying to manipulate me in agreeing to your conditions. I said within reason—”

"I would never manip—all right, yes, I did." She covered her face as to hide her shame because she thought herself ten years beyond such immature and unhealthy behavior. Dangling sex in front of a partner as if it were a carrot in front of a horse wasn't right. It was the opposite of right. It was wrong, unhealthy, and the incorrect approach to amicable bedroom dominance. It was something she hadn't done since those early days with Draco who had ignorantly handed her a whip and his reigns. He had trusted her to lead him into a pornographic paradise of debauchery and orgasmic ecstasy, but what she gave him was her own misguidance on feminism which was just her beguiling him into captivity and highly thinking of herself empowered because of her success.

"I'm sorry, John. That wasn't very nice of me to do." 

"There must be an ague of it going around, for I haven't been cordial, myself. Frankly, I've been acting like a misbegotten youth. I'm pulling at your pigtails to get your attention, and I am beside myself with confusion as to why you won't spare a moment for me. I bet you won’t even miss me when I’m gone.”

His question knocked the wind out of her, and her jaw dropped. Swiftly, she recomposed herself and cleared her throat, looking off into a far corner. “Thanks to your mother-in-law and sister-in-law, my social calendar is bursting with gentleman callers. I’ll not have a moment to spare wondering whether you’re safe, warm, and fed. O-Or if…” Beneath her skirts, she crossed her legs and shied her body away from his. “If you’re alone. Missing me while you balance your own social calendar.”

“I doubt I’ll have time for anything of the sort.”

“You’re a soldier and a man. There will be events and brothels and events in brothels. You’ll make time.” Hermione nibbled on her bottom lip, not at all comforted in the fact that if he did take someone to bed in the following months, it wouldn’t be a woman from a brothel.

“And women don’t?”

“We are capable, if necessary, but the time we create is hardly ever for our own pleasure. We are incredibly busy beings, us women.”

John exhaled softly. “I will miss you, Hermione."

"Stop! You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Shall I look away?"

"Yes."

"Fair enough." He turned his head away, staring off into corner. "I'll just stare at the clock and say aloud everything I will miss about you for a minute straight."

"Don't you dare!"

"First and foremost, I will miss how high-pitched and posh your tone gets when you're peeved—"

Hermione chucked a throw pillow at his head which he easily caught.

"And your tendency to throw things when you can't think of a clever response—"

Another two pillows joined the first.

"And the way you just don't give up. It's charming."

"I'm going to hit you!"

"Even the promises of a beating, I'll miss."

"I'm going to take Willie and run off with a Son of Liberty!"

"The threatening to kidnap my son and elope with a treacherous ligger will never get old."

"Stop, or I will kill you!"

"Then when you've reached the end of your rope, you'll finally threaten murder."

Hermione swatted his arm.

"What I'll miss the most, however, is watching how wonderfully brilliant you are with Willie and the way a bond has already kindled between you and Dottie. I regret to not having the opportunity watching the two of you become closer—"

Embarrassed agitation softened into heartache. "John, please."

"My darling, come here," he said, placing his gaze back on her and opening his arms looking ever so much like a Disney prince.

Hermione narrowed her gaze at him.

"I promise to behave, but I do wish to hold you."

Making a complicated huffy sound, she crawled to him and slumped into his chest. Her willfulness dissolved, for this was exactly what she wanted from him on Saturday. The sex was good, but really, all she had wished was to rest her head in that very spot and find security away from her troubles. Her eyes drifted close and unwashed as he was, and she detected traces of his sandalwood cologne underneath the bulky blanket of brandy. 

In the comforting time of five minutes to which he gave her, his hands never wandered from running up and down her back. Those tempting lips of his never strayed from blowing soft breaths at her hairline. 

"Will you write to me?" he said, finally breaking the silence. The words stirred the curls atop her head and revived her vexation.

"Must you really go?" Her head popped up. "I mean...no amount of King George's English pleasantries are going to make these increasing rebellions go away."

"England's monarchs have dealt with similar situations. Not five years ago, we were at war again with France and Spain. We won. It always ends the same, Hermione."

"What if this time is ends differently?"

"It never does. You're keen on history. You are aware how it enjoys repeating itself."

Hermione climbed off him and stood. God, he was such a blind British bastard, wasn't he? A faithful and unquestioning servant to his country, Crown, and sometimes Christ. "You have to know, John, that this won't end in Boston. What's happening there is happening here and in all the other colonies. It's just louder there. It's inevitable another war will happen—"

"My lord," said a man's voice behind the office door following by a series of knocking. It was Oscar Bobwhite. Originally an employee of Christopher Bobwhite but not a blood relative of Caroline and her family. The extent of his duties consisted of being a parttime estate manager, valet, and butler. Short as Hermione and three times the weight, he ricocheted about the two properties more like a sluggish bowling ball between two bumpers rather than a bullet fired in a metal shed. His pace was one of careful waddling and unhurriedness.

"Your first guests has arrived and wish to speak with you." Surprisingly, when Oscar spoke, he did so at breakneck speed. His tone fluctuated sporadically from high-pitched dog whistle to James Earl Jones, and he always sounded violently anxious. Like he was warning those around him of an up and coming danger, even if that 'danger' was how nice the weather had been the last two days.

In the space of ten seconds and a few blinks, John stood before her as if he hadn't just had the worst nap in the world on his office chair. Throwing open a cabinet in his desk, he fished out an emergency wig and plopped it on his head. Using the cloth from the ewer close to the window, he dabbed his forehead and beckoned Oscar to allow the man and wife inside. Hermione placed the throw pillows back in order and quaintly positioned herself on the sofa chair farthest from the hearth, warning bells ringing loud in familiarity when a tall and proud-appearing man in his mid-to-late thirties but looked shy of fifty came into the room, his dark-haired bride close to his side dressed in the finest of fabrics and patterns. Despite her nose being rather bony and overly-defined, her beauty was effortless and natural.

Oscar bowed. "I present Master and Mistress Washington of Mount Vernon, my lord."

Chapter Text

On Christmas Eve in the year 2000, five dark wizards barged into Hermione's childhood home and attempted to murder her parents out of revenge for her part in the War. Among them was Anton Dolohov. He and the others would've likely succeeded if Hermione hadn't finished her work early at the ministry. Early, as in, she actually left the office before eight o'clock. The attackers hadn't planned for her to arrive until sometime after midnight.

What Hermione walked into that night was not something she'd ever forget nor was it something she kept at the forefront of her mind for obvious reasons. The men had made a mistake threatening her parents, but so had she. And it was one she would have to live with for the rest of her life. The more gruesome and guilt-ridden details, unremembered by her parents, were locked away in Harry's office and in her mind healer's drawer. Perhaps one day, over an entire bottle of whiskey—Ogden's finest or Fraser's unholy moonshine—she'd replay the events in a Pensieve for the sake of feeling miserable.

Needless to say, Hermione's paradigm shifted. Though she continued her tertiary education at Cambridge, she had excused herself from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and pulled her 'I'm Hermione Fucking Granger and can do whatever the hell I want' card and transitioned into a special sect of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. While employed in Special Sect, she had to learn how to do something she had never quite mastered.

Lying.

To make one thing clear, Hermione was no stranger to lying. She'd done it most of her life. Lying well on the other hand was another thing entirely. A talent she hand not possessed and a skill she'd continue to hone into the present day...and the not-so-present-day. One would think that over the years, with all the secrecy and hiding, she'd adapt accordingly. To an extent, she had. Unfortunately, depending on the nature of the lie or how monumental it was, she still felt like a dewy-eyed school girl dressed up in a lunatic's dress playing pretend whilst stammering out untruths.

The thick, fluffy bed covers were tucked securely underneath Hermione’s chin. The dinner party would start soon. Guests were arriving, and the gaiety of their conversing voices could be heard from the main floor. What was supposed to be a modest dinner with Christopher Bobwhite and his brood turned into an entire soiree of thirty-plus people, and Hermione couldn’t have been more grateful. The more the merrier. With all those people, who cared about her not being there?

A banging on her door had her coughing dramatically. “Go away. I’m sick.”

The locked knob wriggled and then after a five-second jimmy, the Duchess of Pardloe herself barged into her room, a mother of pearl hairpin clutched in her lacy glove. “You,” the woman said, pointing the sharp instrument at her, “are not getting out of this, young lady.”

Hiding at how impressed she was by the sheer coolness of the woman's lock-picking skills, Hermione turned onto her side and let out a series of deep, bronchial hacks. “I’m terribly, terribly ill. I might even die.”

Minnie slammed the door behind her, and Hermione heard her circling the bed. “What’s all this about? All week you were fine meeting Mr. Bobwhite. All of a sudden you don’t feel well? What a sack of smelly piss!”

“Leave me alone.”

“You are acting like a child, and Bobwhite is dying to meet you. He was hoping to already. He came early and brought you a gift. Oh, Hermione. He’s utterly besotted by you already.”

Hermione curled further into the fetal position. “He doesn’t even know me. What kind of man takes one look at a woman, at church no less, and decides he wants to marry her before even speaking to her?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you go ask him and the seven other men down there who are suffering the same ailment?”

“Seven?”

“More is to come. You made quite the impression on Monday in Lynchburg when you were browsing the market square. Especially when you popped into the apothecary.”

“I only spoke to the half-blind leviathan behind the counter. How is that making an impression?”

“There was a Lynch in there as a matter of fact. His name is Michael, and he will be here this evening. He followed you and Dottie back to the coffee house. Louisa saw him trailing you like a lost puppy and cornered him when you took Dottie to that book peddler. Did you really not take notice of him? It was like you put him under a love spell.”

In her peripheral, Hermione saw Minnie hover by the yellow gown on the mannequin near the armoire. “You are going to go down there in this dress, and you will do so quickly. If you do not, I will tell Lady Dunsany about you and my brother-in-law.”

Hermione sat up and glared, calling her bluff. “No, you won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because you love Willie, and you know he needs me, especially with John leaving for Boston.”

Gracefully, Minnie sat down at Hermione’s vanity. “Is that what this is about? You’re moping over John leaving?”

“I do many humiliating things, Your Grace, but moping over boys in my adult years is not one of them.”

The woman cracked a smile, her expression one of shrewd curiosity. “What is going on between you two? I don’t quite understand. If there are romantic feelings, I don’t see why you two can’t marry—”

“Because this isn’t about that, it’s about…” George Bloody Washington and his beloved Martha being downstairs, and the universe somehow expected Hermione to dine with him in the same room and not foul up the future.

The Washingtons. They weren’t her idols, no. And if she was given the choice to share a meal with any historical figure, neither one of them would make the cut. They wouldn’t even be in her top ten, but here they were, nonetheless, and she was terrified. Intrigued. She had questions and was bursting at the seams with them.

“I don’t want to make a fool of myself,” she conceded vaguely.

“In front of Bobwhite? He won’t care. He’ll love it, even if you do.”

“But what if I really make a fool of myself? What if I ruin everything?"

Minnie eyes narrowed. “This all a rather new development for you, Hermione. Caring what people think? You were perfectly sorted this morning. And then you made yourself scarce after meeting with John. That’s when the Washingtons arrived.” She cocked her head. “Aside from Mr. Washington’s recently outspoken opinions, especially regarding the Stamp Act, I am to understand he is a fair and respectable man. He faithfully served in the Virginian Regiment and everything.”

“He…owns a lot of slaves,” Hermione said, finding the excuse adequate enough to prolong her from going downstairs. “It’s despicable.”

“Well, it’s not like he’ll be battling for your affection—”

“I can’t stand the thought of eating my dinner by anyone who owns slaves.”

“But you already have. In Hispaniola and through your travels. I know this isn’t about that. You’re not upset Mr. Washington isn’t showing favor to the King currently, is it?”

“No. I don’t care about the King, either.” Hermione made a frustrated gesture. “But speaking of, why is he here if that’s the case? He’s not surrounded by friends.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t excused herself so fast from John’s office by feigning illness when the Washingtons arrived, you would’ve found out. He’s here because of you.”

“What? No. Oh, God, no.” Hermione cupped her ears and shook her head. “Why? I’m nothing. I’m a nobody. I’m—”

“A teacher, and his two stepchildren need a governess while he and his wife travel north. They are also on their way to New York. They and John met in Alexandria by chance when they were arranging passages. The Washingtons were going to just take their children, but hearing about John having a woman of education and poise in his employment, it was a perfect opportunity for both parties. John may not be over the moon about Washington’s political beliefs at the moment, but the man owns a large estate in Mount Vernon and has a lot of influence with the colonials and casts a very large shadow over Virginia. Washington is a liked man and as the climate of perception changes—which it will—John could use the alliance.”

At that point, Hermione was curled up like a shrimp against her headboard, pillow clutched protectively to her front. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, horrified, and burying her mouth in the downy to scream.

“Hermione. Hermione.” Minnie sighed and lifted her hands in a placating fashion. “Mr. and Mrs. Washington will pay you well. Very well. You are in no position to turn them down, and the fact you working as his children’s governess would make you that much more desirable—What are you doing?”

Abandoning the pillow, Hermione hopped off the bed and crawled underneath it. “Hiding!”

“Well, you’re doing terribly. I can see your feet.”

“I don’t want to be more desirable!” How had this become her life? Twenty years ago, people avoided her or downright ran away from her. They disliked her immensely. Bloody hell, even in Hispaniola, she was disliked. On the ship to here, no one cared for her. What had happened?

“You should’ve thought about that before being born with that face. Now get out from under there.”

“No! I’m staying here until spring, and you can't stop me. I'm—”

Her admittedly juvenile rant of stubbornness was cut short by a delicate rapping on the door.

“Who is it?” asked Hermione, glaring at the barrier from underneath the bedframe like a cat waiting to pounce.

“It’s me,” hissed John and then flung himself into the room, hastily closing the door behind him. He didn’t notice Hermione immediately, so he froze when seeing his sister-in-law’s presence.

 “Hermione is underneath the bed,” informed Minnie.

Furrowing his brow, the man lowered his gaze. “My darling, what are you doing down there? Did you lose something?”

“My mind,” she replied, internally arriving to the conclusion there was no use in hiding. She was a Gryffindor. Brave and stubbornly so. Cowardice was not her way, nor was procrastination. 

John’s expression softened into one of utter endearment. “Did you find it?”

“No.”

He crouched down and showed her his hand.

Sighing in acceptance, she took it, and he needlessly helped her to her feet. Using the momentum of the lift, he brought her close to him, embracing her. A warm rush of twitterpation bloomed beneath her ribs. Since she last saw him, he had bathed, shaved, and primped. He smelled more of soap and sandalwood than he had earlier, yet the night was young, and men of wealth and opinion seemed to favor conversation whilst imbibing in libations and smoking like chimneys following a long, meaty dinner.

“Why did you run away?” asked John softly.

“I didn’t feel well. I still don’t.” Tilting up her head, she frowned at him. “I’ve heard of Washington, John, and I know you. I’m beginning to know your brother and the Duchess. You’re not housing and schooling his children out of the pure goodness of your hearts or to forge a friendship. A few of their closest family slaves may even stay here, too. You want all of us, including your staff and myself, to spy on them.”

“Minnie, my dear, will you give us moment?” John smiled tightly at his sister-in-law.

Arching a blonde brow, the woman got up from the bed, taking her exit. “Don’t dawdle, and I’m sure you are both clever enough not to come traipsing down the stairs at the same time.”

Once the door closed behind her, John held Hermione tighter and kissed the top of her head. “Hermione, I and many others fear he is in danger of committing treason. The company he keeps and the outspokenness of his opinions are borderline encouraging the Regulators’ criminal activity. He possesses high amounts of influence and has a proclivity for invoking quick alliances. Frankly, he conveys the qualities of a strong and difficult leader. If he were to turn his coat and throw his lot in with these Whigs, I daresay, many would follow his example. I understand you have no loyalty to the British Crown, but the last thing these colonies need is another war.”

“If there is another coming, nothing here at Mount Josiah can stop it.”

“No.” He cupped her face and stroked her jaw. “But we can get insight. Maybe even delay…what? What’s the matter?”

Everything was the matter. Hermione didn’t want to help delay what was to come, nor did she want to speed it up. She didn’t want to be involved at all. George Washington and his wife sauntering into John’s study was like a nightmare coming true. What was worse was…their daughter. Washington’s stepdaughter. Hermione knew from historical reference that Patsy Washington was ill and would die in five years. How could she teach her knowing what was to come? How could she not intervene if there was a possible treatment?

How could she look Martha Washington in the eye and agree to teach her children when her daughter wouldn’t live to marry, and her son wouldn’t make it to his twenty-seventh birthday?

Clutching John’s lapels, she looked up at him earnestly, unable to tell him the primary thing worrying her, so she settled for the second. “I don’t want you to leave. I’m scared you’ll die.”

“I won’t.”

“Do you promise?”

He gingerly removed her grasp from his frock and kissed a few of her fingers. “I promise.”

“You swear? You swear not to die for a very long time? That you’ll grow old and senile and cranky first?”

“I have no plans to do anything but.”

It wasn’t good enough, and she shook her head. “If things were different, I’d go with you. I’d protect you.”

“Protect me?”

“I’d guard your door at night, so your honor remained unsullied.” She nodded, envisioning barbarous Bostonians and potential lovers coming to pay him late night visits. Selfishly but with no less honesty, she worried more over the latter. Hermione did not want to share him just yet and not with someone she didn’t know or trust. With Draco, she had known the male company he kept because she’d been a part of the decision making. Since Hermione wasn’t there with John, she couldn’t possibly be situated in the secret dalliances he kept. John may not want her to be, anyway.

“That won’t be necessary. There will be trained guards everywhere.”

And one of them was bound to favor pretty men. A faceless image of a dashing soldier catching John’s eye had her seeing tints of light green.

“I don’t want you having sex with anyone else,” she said bluntly. Her gaze narrowed when at visible flicker of hesitancy and maybe even panic rolled over his face.

“In that case—” he started and got nowhere just yet.

“Because I love you,” she confessed like she had admitted to a most heinous crime.

“…”

 “And it’s most terribly inconvenient. I mean, I’ve loved you like a friend and respected you like an ally for some time, but I am not built for casual dalliances. I told you this last Saturday when you insisted eating my soup and bedding me—”

“You said we would come to hate each other—”

“We were doing well before you kissed me that first time. Then you had to go and make love to me—”

“—I wouldn’t call what we did making love—”

“Now I love you romantically, and it’s all your fault. I’ve done my best this entire week in your absence not to. Then you return and explain your noble plan in going to Boston, so your brother doesn’t have to. And even though I know the duke is a pain your arse, you love him so much which has made me fall in love with you all over again—”

“Hermione—”

“I absolutely did not want to fall in love again after everything with Draco, especially not so soon, but then you had to go make a home of the hole in my heart—”

“Hermione—”

“But it doesn’t matter. Because ultimately, our paths will have to part. It’s just the way it is—”

“Jesus, Hermione. I am trying to—”

“Wait your turn, damn you! I am talking.” Hermione stamped her foot. “You need to know I am not marrying anyone. You need to know it’s all right you don’t love me back. You need to know so many things, John Grey, but I can only tell you one more. It isn’t the most important, but it’s up there. You deserve to know I may not be here when you get back—”

Resorting to physically stopping her from speaking, John charged and jumped, and Hermione swiftly swirled out of the way and watched him land on her bed. Men were typically predictable, and both Ron and Draco had at one or several times attempted to throw her on the next cushioned service to keep her from speaking. Scrambling, she climbed atop of him, straddling his upper legs and placing her palms on his pleasingly firm backside.

“Your trousers, Lord John, are exceedingly tight.” Light smacks from her hands rained down upon his rump as if it were a drum, and she laughed at his expense. “Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes—”

Because he was a soldier, and aggressively trained for battle, he had her flipped beneath him in two seconds. His hands roamed beneath the bunched fabric of her chemise, snaking up her legs and pausing  at the ribbon cinching of her stockings. His thumbs caressingly swiped at the skin right above them, and through all this, she barely skipped a beat even though her heart did.

“— if you wish to touch me again so intimately. You got yourself into this game, John Grey, and this is how I play. Promise me two things: First, you’ll refrain from finishing inside me. Secondly, I want to know about the other women you’ve bedded in your life.” She wouldn’t dream of bringing up the other option. “You promise me these two things, this next week before you go, I’ll make myself available to you always. No matter the time of day. No matter what I’m doing. I’ll excuse myself from it and serve you.”

John was not looking at her face but held his focus downward. Head tilting, he lifted the hem of her chemise a few inches higher and stared.

“Hermione, may I speak?” His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip.

Exhaling with an accompanying eyeroll, she flung up her arms and rested them by her head. “If you must,” she said, throwing him a smirk.

“Your um…” Four fingers of each hand skimmed the apexes of her thighs.

“Yes?”

“Well…you look different from the last time I saw you.”

“Do you like it?”

“…uh…”

“If your answer is not yes, your nose and my patella will become fast acquaintances. It took me ages this morning to get it that smooth with nothing but a straight razor and soap.”

“I like it,” he said, a furious blush overtaking his cheeks. “It’s just…the last few minutes…forgive me. My mind is trying to catch up. You said you loved me?”

The revelation was rather anticlimactic and hardly worth fussing about when it collided with Hermione Wednesday night in the middle of conjugating Latin for lesson-prep. It was both inconvenient yet inconsequential and hadn’t impacted how she slept that night or conducted herself the following day. All it meant was that it would hurt a little more to leave when it was time.

Hermione lifted enough to kiss him sweetly. “Yes,” she said against his lips.

“You’re sure.”

She nodded solemnly, the tip of her nose brushing his.

“Because sometimes things that feel like love are not—”

“I know what love is and feels like,” she interjected sternly. “And you need not worry about reciprocating. So long as you remain to like and care about me, we’ll be all right. It’s not like we’re getting married.”

He blinked hard at her like a stumped owl. His mouth moved wordlessly as if trying to decide what to say next. He predictably settled on, “If you are with child, that will change.”

Hermione shook her head. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t let my baby be born here, John.”

“Here. You mean the colonies?”

“I suppose, yes.” She sat up, pulling down the hem of her chemise.

“I know what you mean.” John massaged his jaw pensively. “I’d prefer you birthing the baby in England. There are excellent physicians and midwives, and you’d have the best of care a Lady could ask for. I dare not have you risk the journey during the winter months, though.  Speaking of excellency, Claire…for you, I’m certain she’d make the journey. You could send her a letter if needs be, explain to her the situation in discreet terms, mind, and invite her to stay here in your last month. Both my brother and I would pay her handsomely for her travels and services.”

“It’s…” She made a show that she was even considering that a possibility. “A thought, for sure.”

“When will you know if you are?”

“Pregnant?”

He dipped his chin and his consistently curious hands migrated northward to her lower abdomen, massaging the flesh inquiringly. Like he was trying to ascertain the premature possibility by touch alone.

“It’s difficult to say,” Hermione said. Even if she didn’t bleed in a week or so, it wouldn’t mean she was. Her cycle this year hadn’t been so irregular since the War. Other factors would need to be considered. “Clearly, something will be amiss in two months’ time.”

There was a spell to verify pregnancy, but Hermione wasn’t entirely confident she could successfully execute it, especially without a wand. She had never needed to perform it and had never seen a woman do it to herself. Those moments were private and intimately so. There was typically no need or want for an audience.

“But all this worrying and partial planning could be for not,” John said.

“Even so, we best exercise caution. And when I say we, I mean you, obviously. You best pull out before you release."

His hands swooped back down to her thighs, kneading her there. “And how exactly am I supposed to demonstrate such gallantry, my dear, if I am the one beneath you. Recall what took place for our first joining. Is that not a position you would like to repeat in the coming days?”

Hermione opened and then quickly covered her mouth before she said something she may not be able to retrieve without much embarrassment and wounded pride on her part. An  enticing picture appeared in her head of seeing herself riding John with reckless abandon on his chaise lounge in his office at the indecent hour that was midday, and she very much wanted that to happen.

Jesus, she’d sink down on him now if there weren’t several items needing ticked off the list. Honestly, discussing safe sex resided in the underwhelming spot of second to last. The first and most important matter they needed to talk about and what they failed to review earlier in his office was Willie’s education. Unfortunately, time was not on their side for the evening and both their presences were soon expected for dinner.

“I think we’ll have to talk about this later. I need to get dressed and do something with my hair. Apparently, there are strangers down there who want to marry me for whatever reason.” Her crown braid had long ago lost the fight and unraveled. Rolling away from John, she hopped off the bed and checked her reflection in the mirror, pinching her loosened and gaping stays. “Will you retighten me?”

John tugged and tied the laces of her paneling. When he was finished, he swept the curtain of her hair out of the way to kiss the space right above her shoulder blades. “Allow me,” he muttered against her skin.

“Allow you what?”

He coaxed her into her overstuffed chair and in the mirror, Hermione watched her lover expertly pin and shape her hair into a bouncy, erect bouffant of curls held together by her hair comb and sheer sorcery by John’s clever fingers.

“Oh, my God,” she said, gawking while carefully patting her new do. “I didn’t know you could do hair.”

“I think I should make it taller—”

“No.” Hermione chuckled nervously. “Thank you, but no. I like the height as is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. It looks…well, I almost feel like a princess in Versailles. All I need is the dress.” Hermione cleared her throat and gestured to the voluminous ordeal on the mannequin. “Will you help me into it?”

John eyed the dress and then studied her waist. “I’ll need to cinch you tighter beforehand.”

Self-consciously, Hermione touched her stomach and turned to avoid his examining. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“What? No. My darling, no. You’re healthy, and beautiful, and so elegantly radiant—”

“Oh, do shut up.”

“—This dress is on loan from Governor Berkley’s estate and was made for a sixteen-year-old. As youthful as you appear, you are more womanly than not.”

“I have put on a little weight this week." Hermione looked up at him shyly, biting her lip. "I think Caroline is trying to plump me up, so she can roast me for Christmas dinner.”

“Aw, I haven’t had roasted swan in a long time,” he said and grabbing her waist to bring her close to him. “I’ll be disheartened not to…” He ducked and grazed her teeth below her jawline which made her shiver, “partake of such an exquisite delicacy.”

“You are so full of it,” she murmured and throatily laughed when he whirled her around redo her laces. “What happened to the sixteen-year-old?”

“Morbid sore throat. Tragedy, really. She was set to marry next spring.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be her wedding gown, was it?”

“I’m not certain, but it doesn’t matter. The dress is beautiful and needs a beautiful woman to wear it.”

Girly anticipation rose within her despite her new lack of ability to take deep breaths. Over the next several minutes, he helped her into three layers of frothy petticoats and then the bodice.

“It’s very yellow, John. Like a dandelion,” she declared, staring at her reflection. She turned to the side and then forward again to see the damage John had done to her torso. Looking down, very deceptively-full breasts nearly brushed her chin.

“I would call you a dandelion, but you are far more superb. You are a daffodil.” He brightened, pleased with his comparison and took her hand to bring her close to him. “I think that is what I shall call you from now on. My daffodil. I’ll shorten it to Daffy.”

“I hate it.”

“Daffy, Daffy, Daffy, Daffy, Daffy, Daffy. My dear, it perfectly suits you.”

“Daffy is a…” Duck, she internalized. “A silly name. And besides, it used to be what I called my aunt. I couldn’t say Daphne when I was a little girl, so I called her Aunt Daffy until I was six.”

 He embraced her from behind, kissing her temple. “You are the most adorable creature I've ever met. God, I did miss you this week, Hermione. Were you at least a little happy to see my return today despite my solemn news?”

“I don’t know. You smelled like brandy, sweat, urine, horses, and probably rotten meat. I’m very glad you bathed prior to coming up here.”

“How can a single person smell of all those things?”

“I am astounded daily on the human male’s capacity of acquiring the most malignant scents.”

“Women can smell, with all their folds of flesh and extra orifice. Not to mention their monthly visitor—"

“Which we cannot help. Besides, I had the impression you’ve grown fond of my folds of flesh and extra orifice.”

“Mmm. I’m not sure. It’s been more than ten minutes since I’ve last seen it. Forgive me, Hermione, I must look again. If you'll excuse me, I will return promptly or not at all.” He spun her around and dropped to his knees, disappearing under her skirt. Prying thumbs parted her. “Ah, yes. I see now.”

She snorted. “No, you can’t, you pervert. Get out from under there.”

“I quite like it down here. Perhaps, I’ll relocate. The climate is inviting, and the terrain is layered in opulent secrets. Treasure troves of glorious, pink delights. Is that a pearl?”

“All right. That is quite enough.” Hermione stepped backwards and stole back the skirt of her dress, the heavy material mussing John’s hair in the process. Pointer finger still raised for his interrupted investigation, he pouted up at her and unwillingly stood. “I’m leaving now. Wait and then come down”

“Will you come to my quarters tonight?”

“…Yes,” Hermione replied cautiously, opening the door. “Keep in mind, John, I’m saying this because we need to talk about several things. If we can get through them all, and you’re not at all tired, I may be convinced in granting you permission in pursuing a second adventure beneath my petticoats tonight.”

“We could postpone the talking—”

“No, we can’t.” She smiled demurely at him. “I’ll see you downstairs, sweetheart. My betrothed awaits!”

To be Continued...

Chapter Text

Running into Martha Washington in Alexandria was entirely by chance. Had John been more focused on reserving a spot on Sally Forth, he would’ve missed her entirely. Attention elsewhere, he had lingered a tad too long outside a shop, peering into the window display to behold a most exquisite tea set. All he thought was how Hermione, a formidable and promising woman, hadn’t one in her possession.

Desiring to remedy that slight, John entered the shop where he met Martha Washington. She, too, was purchasing a collection of saucers and cups for gifts she and her husband planned to bestow upon friends in New York. The set in the window had caught her eye, as well. Money had already been exchanged. Unable to hide his disappointment, she asked the shop owner on John's behalf if the set had a twin. The man behind the counter said there could be for the right price.

Martha Washington insisted she pay for the ordered items, and John politely refused, explaining he couldn’t possibly accept the offer but was both grateful and charmed by her generosity. Since the set was a gift for someone, he best pay for it himself. From there, she asked who it was for, and he explained the set was intended for his employee. A governess of high-intelligence and widow of gentle propriety and from a good upbringing in Athens, Greece.

Martha’s already comely face had brightened at that and invited him to join her in the neighboring coffee house.

“Patsy, darling,” the woman beckoned to the sallow but fairly pretty young girl studying a litter of dolls on a shelf in the corner of the shop. "My husband is there as is my son. I hope it doesn't offend your sensibilities of mine and my daughter's presences being in a coffee house."

John bowed stiffly. “Not at all, Madam. I am delighted to make yours and your daughter’s acquaintance. I would be ever so privileged to meet your husband and son. I am Lord John Grey. I currently reside outside of Lynchburg. I manage a plantation there on behalf of my stepson.”

“And how old is the dear boy?”

“He’ll be eleven in January. His governess is also teaching my ten-year-old niece and two nephews who are thirteen and fourteen. I believe in a week or so, she—Madam Christakos—will be taking on three more children from the neighboring plantation. Sons of Christopher Bobwhite.”

Martha laughed in delighted relish. “Oh, him. I haven’t seen him in ages. He’s such a comical sort. The type who’ll have you falling to the floor in hysterics. I would love to see him again.”

“As a matter of fact, he will be joining my family for dinner in two days’ time. If you were not occupied in other plans, I would invite you and your husband.”  John bowed to Patsy “And your children.”

“We…do have plans,” Martha said, “but I see no reason at all why we can’t delay a little while longer. New York isn’t going anywhere.”

“Our good king, God save him, wouldn’t allow it.”

“Yes, I think you are right,” she said queerly and then offered her arm to him. “Let us finish up our affairs here and then head next door. I think myself, my husband, and you are going to be very good friends.”

Thirty minutes later, in the neighboring coffee house, John had been offered a golden opportunity he couldn’t refuse. Keeping a close eye on the children and a number of slaves belonging to a potential traitor was too good to let slip through his fingers. Any of them were bound to provide insight into the man’s dealings with fellow allies and colonies. What exactly was he doing by sailing up to New York at this time of year and without his children no less? It must be something of critical importance if he and his wife were choosing not to spend Christmas with Patsy and young John.

Standing in Hermione’s room, waiting for a less scandalous time to join the crowd downstairs, John reflected on how he always did have the damnedest time ignoring a shiny, bejeweled prospect. Here he was in his lover’s room. Alone. If Hermione’s affection for him wasn’t going to be enough to stop her from abandoning him, then it wasn’t going to be enough to keep him from snooping around for her dream journal.

Flinging himself at her trunk, he lifted the lid and did not immediately find what he was looking for. Instead, what greeted him was a laundered stack of shifts, chemise, rails, and her more masculine attire she retired for the time being. After digging about—remembering on how marvelous her bottom had looked in those breeks—he spotted two canvas booklets. Grabbing one, he opened to the first page and…

“What the fuck?” John swore, flicking through the pages before tossing the journal aside to grab the other one.

Both of Hermione’s journals were all in another language. One that John didn’t recognize. The writings weren’t in any of the six languages she claimed to speak. And John couldn’t read Gaelic, but he could recognize it. Her passages weren’t in that, either.

John was an educated man. A well-travelled gentleman. Yet, he couldn’t, for the life of him, read what was on the pages. After taking a spell to dampen his own temper and examine the Cyrillic letters, he concluded that aside from the dates of entry which began in late April, what he was looking at was either Russian or Bulgarian.

Potentially, Minnie may be able to translate a handful of words per page and string along a sentence or two. By no means would she know…

And who was John to claim he knew every secret component of his sister-in-law? Whenever he thought he had her all figured out, she'd reveal something of herself that shocked him so greatly, years were stripped violently from his lifespan.

In his near-future travels, John was bound to meet someone who could decipher what Hermione quilled, but she'd notice her journals' absences. Returning the journal to to the trunk, John launched a more bromidic investigation of the contents on her desk.

What little excitement he had quickly evaporated with each passing second. There was nothing interesting nor incriminating on her desk. Several drawings—none of them exceptionally good—of various things were stacked closer to the wall. He rifled through them and assumed many were from Dottie. All but one were done in lead and depicted tea parties between two lady characters, a crude rendition of those frightening carved pumpkins and turnips from Monday, a couple of horses, and a rather charming scene of an impaled rat against a wooden slat. The one not in lead was also on the sloppier side but done by a more confident hand. It looked to be some sort of tiara…

A stefana, John realized.

A headpiece meant for Greek brides.

The tip of his finger traced the two serpents facing one another, their tails long and interwoven in the leaves and vines surrounding the circumference.

“Peculiar,” he muttered aloud to himself. He imaged Hermione as a bride, standing proud at three inches and five feet, unapologetically entering a House of the Lord with a snake crown on her head.

She'd be dressed in her preferential white, the design much like a stola with a golden sash around her waist. Her arms and feet would be bare. Her hair down and wild. Instead of painting the picture of a demure, Christian widow, she resembled an unassuming but no less striking Olympian goddess.

Or maybe a beautifully destitute Persephone finally returning to the earth’s summery surface and into her mother’s arms after a long, dreary stay in the Underworld.

“I bet my last coin your parents think Hades himself stole you away,” he said.

The door creaked open, and Minnie popped her head in. “I think you’re good to come down now.”

“Can you translate Russian or Bulgarian?”

Minnie tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“Do you think it possible that Hermione is a spy?”

His sister-in-law fully entered the room and quietly shut the door behind her. “I believe it’s possible,” she said hesitantly, “in the sense that anybody could be. She has many secrets which doesn’t take a genius to see, but if she is a spy, I can’t for life of me say who her employer would be or what she’s spying for. It wasn’t her who tracked you down, right? You found her not far from the slave market—”

“Vomiting in an alley wearing something better suited for a brothel.”

“I am keeping a close eye on her, too, John,” Minnie said, “but perhaps not close enough. Did you find something?”

“Journals,” he said, opening her trunk and again fishing one of them again. He showed her the first page.

“Bulgarian,” she said softly, taking the booklet from him. “I recognize it, but I’m not fluent.”

“Can you make out anything at all?”

She turned over a few pages. “Not a terribly good artist, Hermione. She doodled something here. Maybe a circle of stones like the ones all over Britain. It looks like she also drew a pathway from it leading to a cave.”

“Never mind about the drawing. Do you recognize any of the words?”

The woman returned to the first page and dragged her finger over the passages. “Dragon,” she started, tapping her digit on a word. “It’s used several times on this page.”

“Her late husband’s name is Draco. Anything else?”

The journal slapped shut, and his sister-in-law deftly returned it to his home. “It doesn’t matter right now. You have guests—”

“It does matter. She’s writing in another language. She is clearly hiding something—”

“Of course, she is,” Minnie hissed, more out of annoyance than anger.

“A language she did not tell me she could speak or write. Gaelic accompanied with Bulgarian. That’s odd—”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, “which is likely why she didn’t tell you. A woman like that stands out. She pushed her luck by telling you she spoke only six.”

John glared at the trunk. “I want to know what they say and why she can speak all those languages.”

“We all have our secrets and unless any of hers put this family in danger, she is entitled to them.”

John grunted, feeling both ashamed and more than a little hypocritical. Hadn't he already decided but a week ago he wished to not know too much more about Hermione in fear of coming to dislike her? Why was he sniffing around? Was it because he really thought her a spy or because he wanted to take the risk? Nothing more than he had discovered about her had really skewed his perspective. If anything, his attraction had grown. He recognized the danger in the intense feeling and found himself a walking cliché. He had become an incautious and imbecilic moth who couldn't help but risk singed wings.

“Women have so little in this world, and she has even less, John. No husband. No dowry. She’s halfway across the world from her family. Almost every single item on her person tonight belongs to someone else except for the hair comb, and that was given to her as a gift by Louisa who paid half for her fabrics and patterns on Monday. I paid the remaining sum. What Hermione purchased in Lynchburg was a couple of books, paper, lead pencils, quills, ink, and herbal medicines from the apothecary—”

“What sort of medicines—”

“She even got Dottie a doll. Paid for it herself, I know. Not to mention the other little trinkets she got for Willie and the boys. I wasn’t supposed to find out, but I’m her mother, and she hasn’t quite mastered the task of hiding things from me. And you know how costly all those items can be.”

“What sort of medicines?” repeated John.

Minnie sighed. “I’m not certain. I didn't get a look at her list. I do know what she couldn’t find at the apothecary, she was brave or stupid enough to strike up a conversation with a Cherokee woman seeking business at the market square. They spoke in French, so…”

“You knew exactly what they were saying.”

“I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know she stopped to talk to the woman until Dottie told me. Her French is hardly passable right now. She said Hermione was able to convince the Indian woman to trade with her. A jar of that horrid peanut paste and a jar of jam for a handful of herbs, plants, and some teabags.”

"I see," he said, strained.

Minnie clasped her hands in front of her, tilting her head. “I want you to be honest with me, John Grey. Did you get her with child?”

“I…Jesus, Minnie.”

“Oh, my God, you have,” she whispered in horror. “Christ, John. Hal will—”

“I haven’t,” he interjected and then belatedly added, “that I know of.”

The Duchess made a very unhappy sound.

“It is much too early to say. We were not—”

“Careful. You weren’t careful.”

“You are in no position to be using that admonishing tone. Let us remind ourselves of when you married Hal and when Benjamin was born.”

“I was seventeen! And if anyone is to blame, it’s Hal. I was minding my own business when he seduced me—”

“You broke into his office and was caught going through his things. I think if anyone seduced anybody, Minnie, it was the other way around.”

A flustered shade of crimson spread across her nose and cheeks. “It doesn’t matter now. I love him, and he loves me. Can you say the same about Hermione? Because if you can, you best go down there and stake your claim.”

John laughed. “My claim. Minnie, you know Hermione is indulging you and Louisa. She has no interest in remarrying.”

“And if it's you she loves and wants?” Her brows arched.

“Those things aren't enough for her.”

Or me, John said to himself. Her declaration had both surprised and moved him, but he still couldn't find it within himself to envision a future of them together in years to come. Every time he did...every time he tried to think of Hermione standing across from at an altar where they'd make marital vows to one another, he saw ghosts—both alive and dead—in the chapel haunting him.

Hector.

Percy.

Isobel.

Jamie. 

“And if she’s pregnant?”

“Then I will," he forced out. "but she'll give Hal and I hell the entire way to the altar.”

The woman’s small hands clenched into fists, and her face reddened further—this time out of displeasure—the tint reaching her ears.

“Don’t be upset with her. Were you any different?”

Minnie massaged the space between her brows. “The reason why I initially asked if she was with child was because of the medicines she purchased from the Cherokee woman. I hear about women going to them when they are trying to make a pregnancy come away."

"She wouldn't."

"Are you quite sure?"

Bracing himself against the chair in front of the vanity, he thought how fatuous he behaved when Hermione brought up the possible consequences of him finishing inside her. His immediate reaction was to throw himself under the merciless rolling weight of the carriage, for it seemed a much more pleasant way to go rather than deal with what Hal would do to him if that possibility became a reality.

Currently, John no longer felt that way. Preposterous as it was, a part of him...hoped.

Which wasn't fair, nor right since he couldn't see himself bathing in the light of matrimonial bliss with Hermione.

It was entirely selfish. He wanted a baby. He hadn't the opportunity to be a part of Willie's life too much in those very young and precious years and believed his hopes and dreams of being a biological father died with Isobel. Hermione, volatile and stubborn like a wasp-bitten mule, would not just make a sufficient birthing vessel but a wonderful mother.

In John's understanding of the world, most women had the capacity to bear children within their lifetime but not all were meant to be mothers. Hermione loved so fiercely, was so protective of Willie, and warmed easily to children. She had the remarkable ability to see beyond the likes of adolescent aggression and shenanigans. She knew how to help tame and nurture those students. Her patience with Willie and now with Hal's herd was a stunningly miraculous feat, indeed. Somehow, his lover hadn't throttled any of them yet.

John vainly included to his list that their child would be incredibly attractive. Even rivaling the Pardloe kit. A beautiful offspring of his—sporting a title and pedigree, charm, wit, and money—could marry well and further boost image and social standing of the Grey family.

"I'll be most upset and inconsolable if she tries," John said. "What I am sure of is that she'll leave, and what I fear most is that I won't be able to stop her."

Dinner was a torturously slow affair, made worse by the bittersweet blessing of Hermione sitting close to him. At the head of the table, John sat and who was supposed to be on his right and left was Christopher Bobwhite and George Washington. Needless to say, that was not how the layout unfolded. On the opposite end of the grand, rectangular surface sat the Master of Mount Vernon absorbing all and everyone’s attention.

When John arrived into the dining hall in the company of his sister-in-law, he half-expected to see Hermione to be soaked in praise and assiduity.

What he initially witnessed couldn’t be further from the truth. Aside from himself, everyone was seated at the table and seemingly mesmerized by Washington, not by Hermione’s insensibly lowered neckline emphasized by her grandmother’s tiny Orthodox crucifix. Now mind that John nor anyone could see the pendant, just the chain draped over the swell of her breasts. The cross itself was buried below yellow daffodil ruffles.

Nobody but John knew that it was in fact a cross pendant.

And no one appeared to give a damn. 

Tall as Jamie Fraser and just as broad-shouldered, Washington loomed largely at the south end of the table. His voice was low, boisterous, and commandeering. Both he and Bobwhite, who sat at the man’s left, entertained the other guests and host with tales of exaggerated adventure and comedic mishaps. Even Hermione was not immune to the fun. The woman’s expression told John she was at war with herself. It was like she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed and giddy or anxious and apathetic.

Washington said something amusing, and the crowd tittered. Bobwhite, who was on Washington’s left side, clapped the man on the back and amplified the joke. Everyone in the room erupted into violent laughter. Hermione childlike chortle joined in, and John couldn’t recall ever seeing something so beautiful than the look of pure, unguarded mirth on her face.

For an unhinged moment, he saw himself raising his voice to draw the attention of the crowd to him, so he could recklessly ask for Hermione's hand in marriage. Denying him publicly would humiliate both of them. John was a Lord. He had money, status, and a respectable military career, and planned to do an honorable deed in going to Boston on his brother's behalf. Like Minnie said, Hermione possessed nothing, save her secrets, a necklace, and a hair comb.

And still…she would say no. He predicted with upmost accuracy that Hermione would pin him with a murderous look and throw her plate of half-eaten lamb, glazed carrots, and roasted potatoes at his head.

Avoiding her glass of wine like it contained poison, she drank water from her second glass, her lips still smiling.

Christ, he wanted to kiss her.

His hand found her thigh underneath the table, and she briefly looked at him over her glass before setting it down and giving Washington her eyes and ears once again. Her hand found his, and she squeezed in acceptance.

John wanted so desperately to kiss the proud and self-destructing stubbornness right out of her knowing it would never leave. Her heart had accepted him, yet she was unattainable just like Caroline had said. Sentimentalities wouldn’t deviate her purpose. Her plans, her goals were concrete, and she possessed the frightening maturity to realize romantic feelings weren’t.

What he wanted to know more than kissing her, though, was how her late husband cracked that “peach pit” and wormed his way inside her most unimpregnable vault.

Discreetly leaning over, abstaining from giving her lobe a playful peck, he whispered, “I must speak with you privately right after dinner.”

“Did I ever tell you, Chris,” Washington’s voice boomed, and he raised his glass of wine to the man beside him, “about my cherry tree when I was a lad?”

“Oh, my God,” Hermione said under her breath in an oddly reverent fashion, like George Washington was a minister and had quoted a most agreeable scripture. He half expected her to cross herself.

“Hermione, please.”

“Shh, I’m trying to listen.”

“To a slave owner? Hermione, you do surprise me sometimes.”

That did get her attention. She blinked her damningly long, black lashes, and her features twisted like she was coming out of a spell. Her chocolate-colored orbs swiveled to meet his bemused state.

“Oh, um…right." sighed solemnly. "He's probably heartbreakingly evil."

"Willfully ignorant on particular matters, certainly. If it makes you feel better, four slaves of his will be left here for the care of his children. On my behalf, Minnie will purchase them, and she and Bobwhite will secure their freedom.”

“On your behalf,” she repeated breathily.

“Yes.”

Those lashes fluttered again, her pupils dilated, and her complexion became dusky. “You wanted to talk to me in private immediately after dinner?”

“That is correct.”

“Where?”

“Oh, well…” John cleared his throat. “My office. Before dessert is served, excuse yourself, and I will follow in ten minutes.”

Her face fell. “I’ll miss dessert.”

“You will undoubtedly live.”

“It’s raspberry jam tarts and warm chocolate. I most certainly will not, John Grey.”

“The wine is a little sweet. You can drink that.”

She glanced distrustfully at the glass of extensively taxed Madeira that came all the way from Africa, only to be spurned by one of Hermione’s moods.

“No, I shan’t,” she said, both sourly and snootily.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t understand."  Abandoning their handholding, she repicked up her knife and fork to resume her unenthusiastic eating. The sauce in the lamb had a lot of wine in it, and she had done her best in scraping the flavorful residue off the tender morsel of meat during grace when everyone was supposed to be thinking of God, gratitude, and—most importantly—the government.

“Hermione?” he said ever so softly into her hear.

“Hm?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Swallowing her bit of food, she dabbed her smiling lips behind her serviette.

“Lord John?” she said inquiringly, placing the cloth back on her lap.

“Yes, Madam?” he replied, his fingers crawling upwards on her leg.

“Are you really going to purchase and free those slaves?”

“I am. If they want, that is. Freedom is enticing to all but not without price. Some may have family or intimate ties they do not wish to leave or sever at Mount Vernon or a neighboring estate. With much regret, I cannot purchase all of them if they do. As you are aware, slaves are expensive and petitioning for their release is no nominal matter, either. And that’s the easy part. Keeping them free is the real hardship and so long as I am alive, I will do what I must to keep the employers of my estate and Bobwhite’s out of chains.”

“I’ll see you in ten minutes. I’ll be in your office." Hermione set down her cutlery and placed her napkin beside her plate, standing.

Washington’s talking and the people’s laughing came to dead halt. All the men, including John, sprung upwards when Hermione got to her feet.

Which was a mistake. Now all the eligible men’s eyes were now on her. The bastards were reminded of the fact of why they came in the first place.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Hermione announced breathlessly, “It’s so warm in here, I’m feeling dizzy. The wine. It's so strong. I think I’ll go lay down. I’ll return soon. I do so wish to become more acquainted with you all and your children shortly after a quick rest.”

“I’ll escort you to your quarters, Madam Christakos,” said a very young Caldwell man before anyone else of a more delaying age had the chance to volunteer.

“You are so kind, but no,” she said firmly which held no room for argument. “I dare not tear away anyone from this wonderful evening.”

Departing from the dining hall at a hasty and false wobble, conversation resumed and expectedly, the new topic was about Hermione Christakos. Unhappily, Washington tried to redirect the attention back to himself, even trying to get Bobwhite to help him, but it was of no use. The bachelors of the evening wanted to know everything about her. Both Louisa and Minnie took great pleasure in shoveling loads of faff down their gullible gullets of embellished half-truths and outright lies sprinkled with a sparse dusting of facts when everyone should’ve been enjoying the raspberry tart.

People can say what they want about Washington, the man loved his wife and only had eyes for her. A pretty little Athenian widow sporting a viperous tongue and a frighteningly enlightened mind wasn’t at all eye-wandering enough to entice him.

“Six languages, you say?” the eldest Caldwell boy said, squinting behind his specs.

“And she’s currently learning German,” added Minnie.

“She best stop now,” said Mr. Travis—a close live-in relative of a fellow plantation owner along the James River, north from Mount Josiah. “It’s a miracle her delicate, feminine mind hasn’t unraveled.”

Mr. Ambler—another northern neighbor —nodded his agreement. “A good friend of mine, a physician, explained to me the difference between male brains and female ones. There’s very little blood flow that actually reaches the female brain. Obviously, it dwells primarily in the womb area.”

“A waste if you ask me,” remarked a Caldwell brother into his fifth glass of wine. “You say she’s in her thirties and hasn’t a single sprog to show for it? Married for eight years, no less. A beautiful, penniless woman who’s barren might as well be a whore.”

Louisa and Martha Washington gasped in outrage, and Minnie murderously clutched her serrated knife, and five of the fifteen men at the table leapt to their feet.

And to shock matters further, George Washington unholstered a pistol from his side and aimed at the Caldwell brother before an unarmed and ill-prepared John could even challenge the imbecile to a duel.

“That woman,” Washington stated icily, “is the teacher to my children and under my employment, therefore, under my protection. You will retract your statement, sir.”

Caldwell smirked at his equally nasty brothers to his right and left and then unhurriedly stood up. “And if I don’t? You’re going to shoot me?”

“Don’t be absurd, you fool,” the Duke of Pardloe hissed. “My brother will.”

“Apologize to me, to everyone in this room, and to Madam Christakos when she returns,” John snapped. “If you do not, I will challenge you to a duel.”

“I’ll be your second,” Hal said, lifting his chin in indignation as if he, himself, hadn’t called Hermione a whore not a week ago.

“Third,” Washington declared.

“Fourth,” Bobwhite said, bobbing his head.

“Fifth,” Michael Lynch—the man who spotted Hermione in the apothecary on Monday—pointlessly added.

Ten minutes later than promised, John slinked into his office, ready for the vital and brief chat he and Hermione. For the time being, he shoved away the impending appointment of his participation in a duel. He couldn't brief Hermione on that...yet. She wouldn't like it at all and would express her opinions on the matter for forever on end, and nobody in the world had the time to listen.

The door closed behind him, and he locked it. Hermione slapped The Winter’s Tale shut and hopped up from her lounging position from the chaise and marched single-mindedly towards him.

“Something wrong?” he asked, wondering if she overheard the debacle in the dining hall and then let out an oof when she shoved him. His back hit the door, and he frowned down at her determined face. “What was that for? What's wrong?"

"I'm thinking I may've been too hasty in my discipline on Sunday in the carriage?" Her palm hovered hesitantly over the front of his breeks. "How does he fair, my lord?"

Face heating, he cleared his throat and lamely patted her inquiring hand. "H-He fairs well, Madam."

"Wonderful. That's wonderful." In the impressive space of three seconds, she was on her knees and swiftly unbuttoned the fall flap of his trousers. Her skilled hand grabbed a hold of his member and began working him into an accelerated state of arousal.

“This is—” Not an ideal time, he wanted to say as the blood rushed downwards from his male brain.

“I love you,” she sweetly said to his cock or maybe to him. John wasn’t exactly sure nor had a functioning mind to ask.

Wet, velvety warmth gingerly engulfed him to the hilt, and he damned near returned the sentiment.

The back of his head hit the door, and he closed his eyes, gasping. “Oh, God.”

Once again, John was at odds with himself and was unable to completely relax until he sensed how different Hermione’s ministrations were in comparison to last time. Previously, she had been putting on a performance that was a sensual extension of her stubborn personality. This time, her pride was hidden, and she seemed to be serving him as opposed to proving a point. The lavish attention she gave was slow and painstaking. He forced his eyes open and saw the way her deep brown eyes—earnestly learning and memorizing his reactions—stared up at him made everything that much more erotically beautiful.

As he approached release, he cradled the back of her head. Tongue failing him, he wordlessly informed her he was on the brink. Her gaze turned serious, and her spine straightened. She placed her hand over his, keeping it there. Her other that had been massaging his sac grabbed his hip.

For a quick moment, she removed her mouth, and he thought he’d collapse to the floor and die from unfulfillment. Her swollen lips pursed together and blew cool air over him causing him to shudder and nearly squeal.

“Fuck my mouth,” she demanded.

A random assortment of alphabetical letters ending in an inquiring influx dribbled from his gaping mouth.

“Use me.” Both her hands clasped behind her at the small of her back, and she added autocratically, “Force me, my lord.”

God forgive him, he obeyed.

When he climaxed, it was though his heart and soul were yanked cleanly from his body.

Depositing a departing kiss on the tip of his cock, she tugged up his trousers and with great care, rebuttoned his breaches. Arms slipping around his middle, she rested her head on his chest. “You said you wanted to talk to me privately about something.”

“Jesus Christ, Hermione.” His knees were weak, and he had to lean on the door for support.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Please.”

Much to his embarrassment and even with the assistance of Hermione, John’s gait over to the sofa was reminiscent of an ill-bred and drunken horseman who had misplaced his good-for-nothing filly. He collapsed onto the cushions, and his lover continued her position of resting her ear over his rampantly beating heart. His arm draped around her, holding her close, and one of her legs entangled with his. Staring stupidly into the crackling flames in the fireplace, he believed if he should depart from the world in that instant, there were worse times to go.

He must’ve dozed off because the grandfather clock chimed loudly, riveting him from a stickily unconscious state and alerting him it was nine o’clock. He hadn’t been asleep for more than fifteen minutes. Hermione was awake, caressing his wrist and tracing patterns over the back of his hand.

“Apologies,” he said, clearing his throat.

“It happens to the best of us." Her head lifted and met his gaze before pecking him chastely on the lips.

He flushed. “What was that all about anyway? I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you wished to wait for such activities until later.”

Her nose touched his, and she gnawed alluringly on her bottom lip. “Because I find good men especially arousing. You are...mostly good.”

He frowned, tilting away from her. “Mostly.”

“Mmhmm. Good men get rewarded for their very good deeds, and I do love giving out that particular prize to the select few who deserve it.”

“Few?” he inquired coldly. “That means more than two. You’ve done that with someone who was not your husband.”

Hermione shifted in his arm, straddling his lap and staring down at him, daring him with her hard stare to tread carefully as he navigated barefoot across her intimidating bed of eggshells. She ran her hands up chest, shoulders, neck, and then settled in cupping his face. Her thumbs teased circles along his jawline and chin.

“My husband was not my first love. I was engaged before him."

“Did you not give your maidenhead to him?”

A snorting chuckle shot out of her nose, and her shoulders quivered. “Maidenhead."

“What’s so funny?”

She shook her head, grinning toothsomely. “I was planning to marry another man when I was nineteen. I gave my…” her body vibrated from stifled laughter. "Yes, we took each other's virginity if you must know.”

He straightened his spine and grabbed her waist. “Why would you do such a thing, Hermione? Why would you compromise yourself and your family that way?”

“Did your late wife take your maidenhead or did you choose to give your special, special gift to someone else?”

“I don’t have a maidenhead. In case it escaped your attention, I’m a male. And it is a special gift. It's precious. You are precious."

Her calculating brown eyes narrowed. "The young man I chose thought so, too. Awkward and fumbling as it was at first, it was special, and we educated each other. And here I thought we were going to talk about these things later."

"Do your parents know?" John wasn't entirely sure why he even bothered asking .

Her mouth opened and then closed, her nose adorably scrunching. "My father suspected and gave us both a firm talking to about being careful as to not get pregnant before our wedding. He was relatively fine with what ever happened after. He wanted grandbabies, mind. My mum was hopelessly ignorant and exhaustively busy planning my wedding. She is also very...orthodox."

"And you're father isn't."

"Daddy got by in life being an atheist until a few unexplainable incidents happened involving me when I was child. Now he accepts there might be something more. He was baptized as a baby but doesn't identify as a Christian. Still, he's my father and didn't like the thought of mine or my mother's Christian image being tarnished. It's very important to her, so it's important to him." My first love and I were careful until we ended our relationship. It was tricky sometimes, but I took these certain herbal remedies that proved to successfully prevent potential problems."

"It's just...women of good standing—" 

She cupped him through his trousers. "You are treading carelessly into dangerous territory, John Grey. Best mind yourself lest the natives believe you a threat. Their revered, tribal witch will inflict a most horrid and damnable curse upon your pretty, pretty penis."

"I'd say she already did in the carriage this past Sunday. But I forgive her. Even if she's not sorry. I'll forever show the witch mercy so long as I am at hers."

Making a sound of utter revulsion as if she couldn’t stand the mere sight of him a moment longer, even going so far in rolling her eyes, she planted her lips on his. The kiss transitioned from a searing, bruising affair to an impassioned rendezvous of wet, slippery mouths and delving tongues. Stirrings of intrigue ignited in his trousers, and John shifted Hermione beneath him so her back lay on the cushions. He rucked up her skirts and after an enduring and well-funded archaeological dig, he was finally able to shape his palm around the malleably soft, heated skin of her quim.

"Oh, no, don't," she groaned, touching her brow to his and then shaking her head.

"Aren't you...I feel you, Hermione." He safely placed his hand above her knee. "You're dripping. Would you...would you prefer I taste you?"

"Yes, but no. What was it you wanted to talk to me about before I ravished you at the door?"

“A prevalent matter,” he started, jadedly removing his hand from beneath her skirts, “in the sense that it wouldn’t be the end of world if you were to become with child.”

“Perhaps not in your marvelous, phallic-forward world of nobility and misogyny."

Between leaving her bedroom and seeing her at the dining table, John rehearsed on how he would approach the subject of her possibly attempting to induce harm upon her own body and the unborn as a way to be rid of the pregnancy. Out of caution, he knew he couldn’t be so forward about it or even ask her about the visit to the apothecary and the short meeting she had with the Cherokee woman. What he could do was lay out his own feelings. His own heart. He couldn’t verbally provide her a reciprocated love just yet, but he could tell her his own hopes.

“Isobel and I were not blessed with children. I wanted them so badly and still do,” he said.

Her already frowning face flared into perplexity. “If that’s the case, John, then you would have them. You would’ve remarried promptly or married even before Isobel. You are not without opportunity and can have any woman you want—”

“I don’t want just any woman. I want you.” Quickly, he added, “And it’s not just because of the carnal knowledge we share or how astonishingly superlative your arse is. Primarily, it’s because you are the most bloody brilliant woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. A man couldn’t ask for a better woman to not only nurture and love them but educate and fiercely protect them. You are so maternal, Hermione. In this life, I imagine one of the many wondrous destinies you are meant for is motherhood. It would be an honor and privilege to be the one to make that happen for you, even if by folly.”

“Jesus Christ, John. Why are you so...?" Anguish contorted her features, and she grabbed by the lapels of his frock and lowered him to her lips. Between kisses, she firmly repeated, "I won't marry you. You can't make me."

"My brother might."

Following a kiss of finality, she began to say aloud a plan of compromise. "Tell you what. If it comes down to it, I'll relocate myself to the top of a very high tower, only accessible by stairs—"

"What else would it be accessible by?"

"—and if he can reach the top without keeling over and dying, then I'll consider accepting an incredibly boring yet exclusive courtship with you. You and I will be so droll in public, everyone will hate how maliciously mundane we are and leave us and our reputations alone for the rest of ever. If people ask me what I fancy about you, I'll say I like your unroasted coffee bean collection and how you butter your toast before spreading on jam—"

He mouthed the words coffee bean collection. "Everyone does that. Jam first and then butter is a sure sign of lunacy."

"When people ask what you like about me, you can say how you are sort of fond of how I pour milk into my tea as well as my bovine brown hair—"

John burst into a fit of warbling laughter. "You have gone utterly mad, but I have never wanted you more."

"If people ever want to come over and chat, I'll knit hideous and holey doilies whilst on a rocking chair wearing specs I don't need and sing songs that don't rhyme. You'll sit on the nearby sofa grumbling under your breath about the troublesome Bostonians and Regulators while reading a second edition of Doctor Faustus. We will be so uninterestingly queer, no one will care if the section beneath my bodice billows out. They'll want to get away from us as fast as possible."

"And how does this all fit in with my going to Boston?"

"Simple. You are not going. Playing heroics on behalf of your king is much too exciting and not the arid portrait of plainness we want to portray, Lord John."

“You know, Hermione, I do rather like the way you pour milk. I find it intensely sensuous.”

She chuckled, and they both maneuvered onto their sides, stilling facing each other. They remained in a comfortable and intimate silence until the clock chimed on the half-hour. Though Hermione's exhale was soft, her body grew rigid, and she removed herself from his embrace to stand. Her hands clasped, and she stuck out her chin. "You did fair in expressing your concerns and wishes without coming across too vehement. I hope you're relieved when I say I won't do any harm to myself to get rid of the pregnancy if I, but I'll have to make decisions you may not like."

For sake of time and the inexplicable need to be buried inside her before midnight, John chose not to fight her. He'd be a damned fool to compromise his brilliant position as her clandestine lover he had somehow bumbled his way into when they only had a week left for frivolity. So much could change between his leaving and returning. John was self-aware enough to understand his fickle and unreliable attraction to women. When he returned in the spring, what if he didn't want her in that way anymore? The possibility was so unimaginable, if he were truly ignorant of his own weaknesses, he wouldn't worry. Alas, for a large portion of his life, he loathed James Fraser and now...

People change as do their feelings. 

Music filtered from the main part of the house, and sounds of inebriated jubilation from the thoroughly feasted dinner guests.

"We best get back. I'll go first," Hermione said.

"Will you still come to my room tonight?"

Tossing a bemused raised brow of her shoulder, she gravely remarked, "Probably. Even though I shouldn't. I still love you and want you despite how you'll likely drown me in your sodden paradigm of double standards."

"I...am not entirely sure what that means, but I promise to do my best in submerging you in praises and my insatiable lust for you."

"What kind of praises?"

"Declarations coinciding with how attractive, witty, talented, and dazzlingly intellectual you are."

The corners of her mouth twitched, and her complexion turned a rosy pink. She opened the door and stepped out. "I will meet you here at half past eleven. We'll see where the night takes us after that."

Chapter Text

Upon entering the main hall after her illicit rendezvous with John, Christopher Bobwhite whisked Hermione up in a dance proposal. When she dazzled him with her insufficient rendition of the minuet, he pulled her close to him—but not too scandalously close—and inquired if she liked the tea set he gifted her. Hermione replied that she loved it and thanked him kindly. His already jovial features further brightened, and he inquired of her willingness to teach his three older boy.

Following negotiation of money and a verbal syllabus of what she planned for the next few months; he wondered if she’d like to take a stroll of the gardens.

Following his marriage proposal to her by the pansies and chrysanthemums, she gently placed a hand on his beefy shoulder. His azure eyes were bright with hope, yet she solemnly explained to him she was still mourning her late husband. She would contemplate his offer, but her heart still longed for her lost love.

Bobwhite took the news like a champ by solemnly offering his condolences, expressing his own misery without his late wife, and making polite small talk concerning the beauty of the Virginian terrain. They spoke of his family, his gorgeous and eccentric late wife, the boisterous children, as well as his dream of slavery-abolishment in Virginia.

Back in the main hall, just when she was about to lap at a thieved stein of warm chocolate from the kitchen, Roland Travis lured her back outside with a ribboned tin of molasses biscuits, surprisingly tender. He, too, proposed to her. Not of marriage but of courting. She favored him with her flattery and promised to think about his offer.

Her next bachelor, Delworth Ambler, ensnared her attention when she was having a lengthy and much needed discussion with Martha Washington concerning her daughter’s troublesome health, treatment for her ailments, and the young girl’s parakeet.

Ambler introduced his more enlightened views on the world. He even went so far as to suggest “medicinal remedies” for Patsy’s difficulties which included a tablespoon of rose-infused arsenic into a shot of castor oil.

Three minutes into their wandering of the estate, Hermione labeled Ambler a sexist know-it-all wretch of a man, but damned if she’d walk away from the opportunity to have a good laugh. One thing that irked her as a fellow know-it-all was someone pretending to be one who hadn’t the credentials to back it up.

There were things he clearly hadn’t a clue about, so she asked, "If it wasn’t God responsible for parts of Greece sometimes shaking and quaking, then what causes it, Mr. Ambler?"

She waited patiently for Ambler to bestow her an explanation and after a long, awkward moment, he vomited out, “Volcanoes.”

She narrowed her eyes in patronizing contemplation. “Active volcanoes generally coincide with earthquakes. Not all earthquakes coincide with volcanos. Have you ever suffered through an earthquake? Have you ever seen an active volcano? I think I know why they happen. Would you care to hear my thoughts?”

Flummoxed and unclear in what direction to take the conversation, he settled on, “What would a penniless and pious widow know about such things? It’s not God who makes the world shake and the storms capable of wiping out civilizations in less than a day. It’s best you open your eyes and see the truth. There are scientific explanations for these events. God…my lady, has it ever crossed your mind He may not be real?”

“Every day, sir, but do tell me of your scientific explanations why He isn’t and why these things happen.”

If he could just say he didn’t know yet but would find out someday and show an ounce of humility, she’d cut him a little slack.

Ironically, Presbyter Adamson was the next one to accompany her outside where he complimented her on the radiance of her Christian soul. He also recited his favorite scriptural verses to her—Proverbs 18:22, being his number one—and then inquired of her a chaste walk through the gardens. He did a remarkable job in painting his profession more worldly, prosperous, and adventurous than it was. The man probably would’ve asked for her hand by the girthy gourds if they hadn’t happened upon Michael Lynch. The strapping young man was stripped to the waist, shivering, and drenched. A sopped wicker basket toting seven spaniel, yipping puppies was in his muscular arms.

“I found them in the river. Some sick bastard—forgive my language—must’ve thrown them in. I had to rescue them. I just had to, the poor little babes.” He set down the basket near the firepit and picked two up with one massive hand and handed one to Hermione and one to Adamson. Neither seemed to have a choice but to take a puppy.

“Well, hello there, sweetheart. You’re safe now. Don’t you worry,” Hermione said to her pup who wriggled helplessly in her arms. “What wicked creature could do such a thing? They’re infants!”

“A heartless beast destined for Hell,” said Adamson who bent down to acquire two more pooches. Gathering the three tiny dogs close to his chest, he cuddled them contently. “‘They will be punished with everlasting destruction and shut out from the presence of the Lord and from the glory of His might.’”

“Let’s get them and you into the house before you catch a chill,” Hermione said to Lynch, casting an admiring side-glance at his pebbled nipples on his defined pectorals. His skin tone was darker than she expected which made his rippling muscles more defined looking.

Benjamin, who was helping his mother tidy up in the kitchen, forgot his duties entirely when they shimmied in with the dogs.

“Puppies!” he exclaimed at the top of his lungs and charged towards the basket.

Not five seconds later, three heads belonging to three sleepy-eyed children popped through the swing door—Willie, Dottie, and Young John—and in unison shouted, “Where?”

The children along with three more—Patsy, Henry, and Adam—burst into the kitchen and helped themselves to the basket. Knowing when to raise a white flag in surrender, Caroline got a blanket and laid it down on the floor for all the kids and Presbyter Adamson to sit down and play.

Over the excited laughter and cooing, Hermione turned her attention to Lynch who now had a fuzzy warm quilt draped over his shoulders and a tin cup of brandy in hand.

“What were you doing by the river and not at the party?” she asked.

“Oh, well, um." He scratched the back of his neck looking sheepish. “Well, to tell you the truth, I was helping the Caldwells get back home. A few of them got hurt, you see. In the little scuffle.”

Hermione thought back to each time that she returned to the main hall, the crowd became slightly smaller. She thought nothing of it given the late hour, and she hadn’t seen John since leaving his office. Hal soon departed from the festivities of drink and dance as had Washington and eventually Bobwhite.

“I don’t see.” Hermione regarded him curiously. “What do you mean when you say scuffle?”

“I wouldn’t even call it that, I guess. It all ended before it even started.” Lynch leaned forward, dropping his voice, his large brown eyes darting to Caroline. “When Archie drew his sword, he sliced clean through his glove and the space between thumb and first finger. He screamed like wounded goat and bled something fierce. He dropped his sword, and one of his brothers rushed to Archie. Just then, a baby boar being chased by a big fat rat dashed right in front of him. It startled him mightily, and he landed clean on that blade. Pardon my language, but the blade must’ve been sharpened by the devil or God Himself, for it damned near sliced off his hand.”

“…a big fat rat chasing a boar?” Hermione furrowed her brow. She couldn’t have heard that right.

“That thing was still holding on with a strip of sinew and a prayer.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Two other Caldwell boys fainted, one vomited. The last one standing…well, he lost four fingers, half is left foot, the hearing in the right ear, and an eye in the war six years ago. Now good old Wilhelm thinks he’s still in Quebec, and that’s on a good day. So he thought he was surrounded by the enemy and made a loud and elaborate show of pretending to die. I have to say, Ma'am, I do pity the man.”

The warm puppy bundled in her arms licked and nipped at her fingers, and her heart couldn’t even appreciate it the tender sweetness. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lynch. Did I…did I miss something?”

Unhinged and inebriated cackling came from behind the double doors of John’s office. Hermione frowned and then cracked open the barrier a good six inches and pressed her face into the gap. The jovial racket increased tenfold, and a gush of warm air flooded her nostrils. It smelled headily of tobacco, coffee, sweat, at least seven different varieties of alcohol, and fresh ammonia.

The latter was due to five grown men—all north of 35—standing in a staggard circle, trousers down. Centrally on the floor, a cluster of basin-like objects were acting as impromptu chamber pots. Each man held their aim and urinated into a drinking glass, a decorative crystal bowl, a stein, a de-planted pot, a Delft vase, or an ashtray.

Scattered unsafely on the rug were miscellaneous weaponry such as knives, swords, pistols, and two hot pokers.

The score was being composed and cantillated by Oscar Bobwhite’s mighty production of "God Save the King".

Off to the side, Oscar's, pumpkin shape stood near the fireplace. One of his arms rested on the mantle next to his discarded wig as his other hand mopped the sweat from his bared brow. In his fluctuating fashion, his warbling went from alto to baritone.

When he came up on the last line, he thrust his wig back on his head, ground his foot into the floor, punched the air, and ‘GOD SAVE THE KING’ burst from his lungs and engulfed the entire room and corridor. Hermione found herself bowing backwards, spine curling from his gusto. Vibrations tickled her feet through her shoes, and she swore she saw the high windows rattle.

Once the butler finished his note, Hermione moved her focus from him and made awkward eye-contact with George Washington who still, like all the other men, had a visible hold on his very monumental male appendage.

Heat bloomed ferociously on her cheeks, and she tore her gaze away, momentarily settling on John’s and then Christopher Bobwhite’s who had noticed her spying.

“Madam,” Christopher Bobwhite squeaked and shoved himself back into his trousers. “Forgive me! I do apologize!”

Slamming the door to hide her burning face, she turned and fled from the hallway and up the stairs to her room and locked the door behind her.

Hermione touched the bit of whalebone painfully gouging into her rib. Wincing, she stumbled over to rest at her vanity and looked at her reflection and the abruptly dissolved into hysterical laughter.

“You saw George Washington’s prick,” she guffawed, “So now go to bed and pretend you haven’t…even though it was huge.”

She had promised to meet John in his office at half-passed eleven. It was coming up on midnight, and he clearly hadn’t been pacing the floor waiting for her. And she’d sooner try to fly out the window than trot back downstairs to face all those men again tonight.

Besides, rising alongside her amusement was anger.

John Grey, that idiot!

That unapologetic prat!

What in God’s name was he thinking in challenging the Caldwells to a duel?

Stripping off her dress, corset, and chemise, she donned a clean rail and woolen stockings before snuggling into bed with a book. The words of Pamela redirected her pulsing indignation from John towards the predatorial, albeit fictional Mr. B.

“What a pile of monkey shit,” Hermione muttered and begrudgingly flipped a page to read what the next one had to say, only to find herself further intrigued in all the wrong ways. Reading Pamela was like finding the rich, fragrant proof that men were truly the worst, and it was the stuff flamboyant feminists read to get themselves all riled up for a passionate debate or protest.

Hermione fell asleep to the thankful knowledge that John was many things, but he could not be further from Mr. B.

Thirst and a craving for sugar awoke her well before morning. Dreams plagued her last night of Ron’s Parisian restaurant and had stirred within her a wanton desire for desserts. The quaint patisserie and bistro, usually bustling with business, was quiet. It was just she and Ron at a corner table sampling cake wedges and drinking cappuccinos. Molly was there, too, serving plates upon plates of sponge.

Laving at her dry lips, Hermione became aware of an arm draped over her middle. The curvature of her bum was nestled into the pelvis of a man.

“John?” she mumbled, turning onto her back. Underneath the covers, she sensed his lack of clothing save a simple sark, and her inconveniently merciful heart softened. He came to for the sake of being near her. He didn’t wake her for sex but snuck into to her bedroom to hold her close and join her in sleep.

He even cleaned up beforehand. Wafts of sandalwood and herby soap tickled her nose.

"Hmm.” He snuggled closer to her, and she could feel his breath on her ear. “You sometimes moan in your sleep.”

“I was dreaming of cake.” She sighed, contently wiggling her bottom. “Lots and lots of cake.”

His early morning salute poked her in the bum and despite her mouth being somewhat dry, other parts of her weren’t. John’s hand rests sweetly on her belly, and she boldly placed hers over it and guided him south.

“Hermione,” he groaned, bucking his hips.

“Touch me,” she instructed. Mentally, she added, ‘before the day starts and reality sets in. Before I really remember how I wanted to discuss the girls of your past. Before I recall how upset I am with you about this duel business.’

Cold fingertips circled her nub, and she loved that he just went for it. No light, teasing touches that just make her antsy and itchy. No fiddling. No filthy promises taking forever to fulfill.

“God, you’re already wet,” he moaned, scraping his teeth along the slope of her neck. Two fingers dipped lower and took the plunge, worrying the spot inside her while the heel of his hand worked her clit.

“Cake does—oh God, yes—that to me,” she groaned into her pillow. Heat stirred within her, warming her blood, and she yanked the sheets away from her fevering body. Flinging her leg back over his and clawing at the sheets, that anticipatory tightness in her lower belly began to coil.

“You like ca—”

“I love cake.”

“Noted,” he chuckled and then suckled her pulse point. “What else do you like?”

“I like…I like…I like. Oh, oh!” That twisted cord snapped, and her inner walls clamped down on John’s fingers. “I like you!”

“You do?”

Grinning stupidly into a wad of bunched sheets, she nodded and reached behind her, taking ahold of his erection and leading the tip to her entrance. “This, too.”  

His drenched fingers eagerly vacated the premises, and he scooped her stockinged leg into the crook of his elbow, sinking into her and filling her to the hilt. The strangled sound he made was so incredibly sexy, she nearly came again and was so glad she kept up her yoga routine in the midst of all the chaos. The stretch and angle would've been uncomfortable otherwise.

She regretted being unable to see his face. His palm laid claim to a breast, running the pad of his thumb over her nipple. She closed her eyes, embracing the little electric currents of pleasure he was evoking and envisioned his expression of unbearable ecstasy. It wasn’t long before she felt that familiar tension winding up in core again.

Immediately after her climax, John unsheathed himself from her and rolled onto his back. Hermione shifted onto her side, feeling a coldness crackle in her chest at the abrupt lost of contact. The feeling didn’t last long once she saw John’s shadowy figure making great haste in finishing himself off.

“That won’t do at all,” she said, batting his hand away and taking over. For practicality purposes and mess prevention, her mouth descended upon him. She would’ve rather finished him by hand given his misbehavior the night before, but such was life. She didn’t want to give Charlotte and Caroline something to gossip about whilst scrubbing her sheets.

Muffled murdering sounds had Hermione looking upwards. Not that she could see much of anything, but she was certain John was trying to smother himself with her pillow.

Darn. She wanted to do that.

Swallowing his release, she lowered the hem of his sark while the other wiped at her mouth. “What in the unholy hell was going on in your office earlier, John?” she asked.

The pillow slanted off his face, and he gurgled out a, “What?”

Crawling up alongside his prone form, she burrowed into the space beside him and laid a hand on his face, feeling the warmth and clamminess from their activities. The subtle heat felt nice on her hands. As her heartrate lowered, the chill from her room returned. “And the duel, John. What were you thinking?”

“Your fingers are turning to ice.” He brought her hands to his mouth, giving them individual puffs of breath and a kiss or two. He then shifted to get out of bed. “I’ll light a fire…”

“No, stay,” she lamented, clinging to his sark. “I’ll be all right. Please stay. Please talk to me and tell me what happened.”

He relaxed, and they sleepily clung to one another. “After the…duel, the lads and I raised a toast and may’ve had a brandy too many. In hindsight, I feel a wretch doing so. It’s not that large of an estate, and there are people aplenty with working tongues. I’m not at all surprised you heard about mine and the Caldwells’ altercation if one could call it that. The duel never really happened. A series of unfortunate events befell upon several of the brothers. The men on my side shouldn’t have been celebrating the way we had. In no way did we honorably win, but it was…Hermione forgive me, it was farcical. Something out of comedic play. One by one, they fell on their arses, and we didn't even have to touch them.”

She lifted to a partial upright position, letting the pillows rest against her middle back "You shouldn’t have challenged the Caldwells, and you most definitely should’ve told me that you had when you came to the office. Instead, you just stood there while I…did what I did. I feel like a complete fool.”

“If you would’ve heard what he said after you left the dining hall—”

“I don’t give a damn what he or anyone else says about me. It can’t be any different what the deep-pocketed members of your social circle have been saying about me since I became your employee. You’ve been polite to stick up for me, but you’ve never challenged anyone to a duel over it.”

“In case it escaped your attention, Hermione,” John began hotly, his hand diving beneath her rail and cupping her quim once more, “matters have changed between us. A woman under my employment, I will defend with my honor. A woman I share a bed with, I will defend with my life.”

“They were just words from strangers who mean nothing to us. What they said, was it true?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then why risk your life for a lie when it’s not even your own?”

 “George Washington was about to challenge the man if not put a bullet in his chest outright. How would that have made me look if I let that happen?”

 “If we weren’t intimate with one another, you would’ve deescalated the situation another way. You don’t need to be so protective of me in public because things have changed between us.”

“But we are intimate.” It was then his thumb parted her slick nether lips, dragging the pad of it over her slippery nub. A muscle in her lower belly twinged from indecisive anticipation, and her legs maybe spread a couple of inches to accommodate him. “I know the sounds you make at peak pleasure, the way you taste, and how many freckles are on your face. I care for you far beyond your position as my son’s governess.”

“And I…” She tucked a stubborn curl back behind her ear, her voice lowering, “I love you. Putting yourself in danger because some bastard doesn’t care for me is upsetting. It worries me. I thought I had to be afraid of you not making it back alive from Boston or even to Boston and then suddenly Michael was telling me—”

“You’re on a first name basis with Lynch, are you?”

Footsteps on the stairs and hushed whispers from downstairs had John springing from the bed and yanking on his clothes.

Hermione slid out of the bed, discreetly lighting her candle with a flick of her finger. She tiptoed to the window and moved aside the drapes to peer outside. The partially cloudy sky was beginning to lighten.

"It's later than I thought,” she said, her breath fogging the glass. On the grounds, she could see a dense layer of frost, and the shadowy figures of groundworkers. She wrapped her arms around herself attempting to stave off the chill. The temperature must’ve dropped in the night.

“Will you join me for a private meeting after supper? I'd have you for tea, but Christopher and I have business to take are of,” he said. “By the way, he’s mortified about the last night and will likely never speak to you face-to-face ever again.”

“Mmm. Maybe,” she said, distracted by revisiting her mental to-do list for the day. Tai chi, Yogalates, hot bath, hot breakfast, saying goodbye and good riddance to the Washingtons, teaching Caroline how to make peanut butter, horse-riding with Minnie, Dottie, and Patsy. After that, a light lunch with Lady Dunsany, and a cozy teatime with Washington's children and Bobwhite's. From there, lesson-planning. Her workload and class-size doubled in less than twenty-four hours, and every single one of her students would be on different learning levels.

Then there was Patsy with her health conundrum.

Epilepsy, Hermione had concluded when talking with Martha Washington the previous night.

Difficult to treat, even in 2010, and one of the few incurable illnesses the wizarding world possessed. Epilepsy was easier to treat with magic so long as the medicinal potions were expertly brewed. However, if a witch or wizard succumbed to a fit, they were just as helpless as a Muggle and potentially more dangerous. Uncontrolled and accidental magic had the potential to erupt from their seizing limbs, causing harm and chaos to their surroundings.

“I’d like you to wear the green dress.”

Hermione looked over her shoulder at him. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there and wondered if he could hear her brows arching—like unoiled, rusty hinges of a door—for he belatedly added, “Please.”

Later that morning, the entire household and much of the staff bade farewell to the Washingtons. Daybreak had brought minimally warmer weather, but just so the clouds could open up and secrete wet and translucent flakes of snow.

Hermione’s heart pounded in trepidation at watching their carriage leave, her stomach contorting sourly when settling her gaze on Patsy’s gaunt, sallow features and her curious little parakeet resting tranquilly on her shoulder.

There were—dear Merlin and God—two treatments Hermione could try with Patsy which didn't involve a tankard of alcohol and bloodletting, thanks ever so much, as Martha had apprehensively suggested.

Hermione recklessly wanted to reach for what could be the easiest remedy.

Cannabis.

Mind, Hermione hadn't a leaf on her. 

There was a chance that the apothecary might have some, but Hermione wouldn't hold her breath.

In Lynchburg, she went against Claire Fraser's advice and traded coins, peanut butter, and jam for humble-sized bundles of medicinal herbs and plants with a Native American woman. Chenoa was her name, and she might have some or know where to find an unsuspecting patch of hemp.

The second option to help Patsy was arguably just as difficult.

Among browsing through the many medical magazines and journals in her parents’ home, Hermione read about how shoving the body’s citric cycle into ketosis could help those suffering from epilepsy. A high-fat, high-protein diet and very little carbohydrates might help her.

It might not.

In a time and in a place where people and children thrived off bread and fermentation, Hermione didn’t believe it was entirely possible to put Patsy on such restrictions. On top of that, if forcing her to decrease her carbohydrate consumption made things worse, Hermione would have George Washington and his beloved Martha to answer to.

Hermione wasn’t a healer or physician of medicine. She was cross-trained in medi-witch courses for Special Sect and a daughter of doctors. With a wand, she could stem bleeding, realign broken bones, and rennervate as needed.

And if necessary, she had the capability of putting stubbornly out-of-sync hearts back into rhythm. She had done it for her father once. A year or so ago, over Sunday dinner he offhandedly remarked how “the old ticker wasn’t behaving” and was scheduled for a cardioversion.

Unsheathing her wand with one hand and a spoonful of pudding in the other, Hermione spelled his misbehaving ticker into submission. Daddy—ever the Muggle, and she loved him for it—hadn’t taken it well.

Like she was an undisciplined youth, he lectured her for an hour about how using magic wasn’t always the answer, and Muggle medicine could be just as effective.

Hermione had listened, quiet and astute. She hadn’t argued or interrupted but once he concluded his long-winded speech and descended from his pulpit, she calmly said, “I don’t care that you dislike magical medicine. You’re my dad. You have an ailment. I love you. If I can fix it, I will.”

That booked another hour lecture on how “he was the father”, and “she was the daughter”. If anyone in the family was going to do the fixing, it would be him. Hermione hadn’t gotten out of her childhood home until nigh on midnight because she indulged her father’s need to be an in-control Daddy and a Muggle one at that.

Hermione missed him and hoped he and his heart were doing well. She hoped he and Mum were safe, and Blaise and Harry were protecting them from danger that seemed to plague her life since the war and probably even before.

Keep them safe. Keep my brothers safe, she prayed to any and all deities who might listen.

Richmond, Virginia

Early November 2010

Rounding the corner to his street, Daniel Granger slowed his pace to a jog. He waved at one of his retired neighbors who was putting up a giant inflatable Menorah on his front law. A practical reaction to the Jensens' highly electric and embellished Nativity scene on their grass just across the street.

"Looking good, Goldman," he remarked with a thumbs up.

"Thanks, Dan!"

Blaise’s van was parked in the driveway, and Daniel's heart leapt into his throat. He checked his phone to see a missed call and text from Helena.

“Hello?” he said, entering the house. He smelt the distinct scent of McDonald's coffee and sandwiches and heard small-talk and Sponge Bob coming from the sitting room.

“In here, darling,” his wife called out. “Blaise and Harry are back. They’ve brought company.”

Turning the corner, Daniel first saw Theodore Nott. He hadn’t seen the younger man since Hermione’s thirtieth birthday party, and he looked awful. He must’ve lost a stone and gained that amount back in years. He sat stiffly in the sofa chair drinking deeply from a McDonald's coffee cup. Taking up space on the three-seater sat Harry and two vaguely familiar men.

Spread out on the coffee table was an ensemble of empty food wrappers, breakfast sandwiches, pancakes, coffee, orange juice, and hash browns.

Blaise and the twins sat on the floor playing with a gigantic Lego set.

“Is that Cinderella’s castle?” Daniel turned to his wife who smiled and shrugged. As if they hadn’t already planned to buy the same set for Christmas.

“Blaise wanted to bring them a present. They’ve had a very confusing week.”

“Not to mention,” Blaise grinned, “that this will get them ready for DISNEY WORLD!!!”

“We just did Busch Gardens in August,” Daniel stated, glaring at Blaise.

His wife leapt from the couch and hastily put her arms around his middle, staring intently up at him. “Blaise has arranged for them to go to Disney World for Christmas,” she said quietly and carefully. “Who will be taking them is still up for debate.”

“You know,” Dan said, his throat and words tight, “I miss our daughter so much. I worry for her. I think about her always, but I believed there to be a silver-lining with her gone. There would be no more random, expensive gifts or out-of-nowhere luxury vacations for us and the boys.”

A manic, clenched grin split his wife’s face, and her eyes turned chilly. “Blaise is drowning in money and has no blood relatives,” she reminded. “One of his best friends is in prison and the other fell through a bloody time portal. Let him have this.”

Dan exhaled and reached for a coffee. “What’s going on? Why is everyone here? I’m assuming it’s about the painting.”

“I think so, but they haven’t said much. We were waiting for you.” His wife looked over her shoulders at Josh and Isaac. “Mummy and the grownups need to have a talk in the kitchen. Play with your Legos, and behave yourselves, all right?”

"All right, Mummy."

"Okay, Mum."

“This is Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan,” Harry introduced, gesturing to the two men he’d brought. “They work in my department and also were in the same year and House as Hermione and me at Hogwarts.”

Daniel shook their hands. “A pleasure to meet you both.”

“You, too, Mr. Granger,” Thomas said.

“Same here,” said Finnegan.

“You’ve met Theo Nott.” Harry dipped his chin at the pale, dead-looking bloke who sat at the barstool massaging his eyes. “He’s been the one working on Hermione’s case since she disappeared. Barely sleep or eats. I don’t think he’s done either at all since we brought him that painting.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Nott,” Helena gushed, placing her hand over her heart.

Normally, a man would blush under the praise of such a pretty woman. Oddly enough, Theo Nott didn’t. In fact, his already sickly face turned grey. He buried his face in his hands as if to hide from her, his shoulders quivering.

“Hey, mate,” Blaise said softly, going over to his friend and sitting down beside him. He clapped Nott on the back. “You figured it all out. Not only that, you found her. We know where and when she is because of you.”

“But it’s my fault.” Theo unhid his face and stared boldly at Helena Granger. “It’s my fault your daughter’s gone, Mrs. Granger. I helped Draco figured out how the time portals—”

“That is not your fault,” Harry argued. “You didn’t know. How could you possibly know what he was going to do?”

“I’ve known him since we were kids,” he countered, hazel eyes glassy and bloodshot. “I should’ve known he was contemplating time-travel.”

“The Draco we know…we knew…would’ve never gone through with it. He would’ve been too scared, and you know it.”

“Unless he felt like he had no other choice,” Theo countered bitterly, sniffing. “You know what he’s like when he feels backed into a corner.”

“But it wasn’t you who put him there.” Harry shoved his fists into the pockets of his jacket. He looked woeful at his trainers. “I wasn't sure if I should say anything yet, Dan and Hel, but you deserve to know that Draco wasn’t working alone. And no, Theo wasn’t privy to the planning.”

“Was it his mother?” Helena hissed. “It was, wasn’t it? That horrible, fucking woman. I hated her just as much as she hated me the moment we met. That unapologetic cunt. Going around thinking my little girl was not good enough for her son. Hermione was too good for him, I tell you!”

From the sitting room, the twins bellowed, "Cunt" in unison and dissolved into a fit of hysterical giggles.

"Bugger!" Helena hissed, removed a creased twenty from the hand-sewn pocket of her leggings and dropped it in The Swear Jar as penance for her swearing in front of the children and because they repeated it.

"They can't be going to school saying that," Dan said, wincing. "It's not like in Britain. The boys might be able to get away with the F word but not that."

"I know that." She threw her hands up in the air and then more calmly said the words again. "I know that. I'll talk to them."

“It wasn’t Narcissa,” Blaise said softly.

“It was another close friend of Draco’s,” Harry explained.

“We think he poisoned Draco’s mind,” Thomas piped up. “Encouraged him to think and believe certain things. His ultimate goal was to get Hermione out of the way. Seamus and I have been on the case since April. We’ve discovered a number of motives—”

“Where is he?” Helena asked, crossing her arms. “Is he in prison?”

Harry’s sorrowful grimace said it all. “We are looking for him.”

“Are you now?” She raised her brows and tossed Dan a meaningful look.

Dan took a seat at the kitchen table and began massaging the back of his neck. “At the moment, I’m more interested on the true nature of your visit, Harry.” He looked to Nott. “Blaise said you found out what time she’s in. That painting was done in 1774. We found that out already.”

Nott opened his mouth to speak, but Blaise cut him off. “I know you’re in denial about this, Daniel, but…” He dipped his chin at his friend who pulled out a long thick tube from his normal-appearing coat pocket. “Hermione is not there. Not yet.”

Uncapping the tube, Nott unfolded the painting that had been haunting the Grangers since Halloween night. Not ten seconds after seeing the painting and taking a few photos of it on his cell phone, Blaise scribbled out a twenty-thousand-dollar check to the owners of the haunted house and promptly removed the family portrait from the wall.  He and Harry made haste with it back to England while Daniel and Helena studied the artwork on their phones.

“We did try searching for her,” Hel divulged, her cheek reddening. “I know you said not to, but I had to know.”

“We found…” Dan hesitated under Harry’s scrutiny. “Honestly, we didn’t have much to go from except what the owners of the house said.”

“They didn’t know anything but what the previous owners told them.” His wife shrugged. “They were curious about the painting when they found it in the wine cellar. They even thought of selling it. The painting is…it’s beautiful. Extraordinary. The artist captured Hermione’s likeness perfectly, but the local museums weren’t interested in paying the deserving amount for a Loyalist family portrait. It doesn't go with Virginia's vibe." She lifted her fingers to make quotations. "They were referred to a few museums. One in New York. Another in Massachusetts. A couple in Maine, but they decided to keep it.”

“We couldn’t find her.” Dan made a helpless gesture. “Not a trace of Hermione Granger anywhere here in Virginia.”

“We found a handful of slave names bearing the name Hermione,” his wife remarked bitterly. “Ironically, our neighbor’s ancestry has a few Hermiones.”

“We got back as far as 1769. The sporadic peppering of the name Hermione disappeared, and there was no record of one marrying a Lord Grey,” Dan stated firmly to everyone in the room.

“But this is Virginia,” Helena said, lifting her chin. “There is so much history here, and a lot was happening back then. It’s only expected our daughter got lost in the confusion.”

Nott, calmly spread out the portrait on the kitchen island, spoke up as if he hadn’t heard a single thing the Grangers said. “The woman who painted this was, for all intents and purposes, a Squib. I found the faintest traces of magic in the brush strokes. A talented lady and ironically, a Patriot. I was even able to find some of her other works, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is Hermione is not in 1774. Not yet. She’s in 1768, and most importantly, she’s here in Virginia.”

“Oh,” Helena said, her tone soft. Interlaced fingers came to rest over her heart. She shuffled over to the island and peered down at the portrait. She reached down and traced a finger over her daughter’s face. “Oh, my sweetie.”

“That doesn’t make sense. She would be in the Dominican Republic. That’s where she went through,” Dan said. “Helena and I were going to start looking into doing research there if we couldn't find anything here soon."

“If she couldn’t return through the portal and had no choice but stay in Jamaica and what was then Hispaniola,” Dean Thomas said, “then she wouldn’t keep to the area. The 18th century natives of the islands wouldn't have accepted her, and she would’ve hated staying in the non-magical community.”

“It wasn’t any better here,” Daniel pointed out. “Bleeding Christ, slavery was worst here in Virginia out of all the colonies.”

“I know Hermione and how she thinks,” Harry held up his hands at Daniel and Helena. “The thing is—”

“Get over yourself, Potter,” Blaise groaned, rolling his eyes. “I know her in ways you can’t even—”

“The point is,” Harry hissed, slamming his hands on the table. “If Hermione couldn’t get help from the magical communities she came across, she would’ve tried to make her way back to England the Muggle way. From there, her plan would be to get help from the Ministry of Magic there which she would be entitled to as an English citizen. The fact that she’s still in 1768 Virginia just shows that she’s waiting out the winter season. Come spring, she’ll hop on a ship to England and—”

“Shut up, you sound like an imbecile,” Nott snorted, surprising everyone with his harsh tone. “I told you the bits of my research and what I found. My theories make sense—”

“A load of bollocks!” Harry made a dramatic display of showing his two middle fingers to the portrait. “This is all bullshit! It doesn’t make sense, and this little blond kid on her lap proves that. It could change! It will change. Hermione will not be there in 1774. She will be here. We are her family. Right here in this house.”

“If Theo’s timeline is correct,” Blaise said, motioning to the little girl in the portrait between the two men and then cupped his forehead. “You know what? I’m not going to argue about this right now. I’m just going to say it and move on. Hel and Dan, I’m sure you figured out these children are your grandbabies—”

Helena let out strangle whimper, kissed her fingers on both hands and laid them on the faces of the baby boy and little girl. “Dan wouldn’t acknowledge it,” she sniffled, glaring at her husband. “But I knew it in my heart and soul.”

“Give me a break,” he choked. His heartbeat stuttered, and he felt like a wicked spirit punched him in the gut. “I didn’t want to envision our daughter building a fucking life without us. Again, Hel. Again. And to make matters worse…” He wasn’t a violent man, but he wanted to throw something. Punch the wall. Sock Harry in the nose. Knee Blaise in the cock for knowing things about his daughter he had no business knowing. “The children in this painting. Our grandbabies. They’re dead. Hermione is dead.”

“Stop it!” his wife snapped, grabbing the saltshaker from the stovetop and throwing it at the window above the sink. Neither one broke, but a crack appeared in one of the grilled panes.

“They are,” he said calmly, eternally grateful she hadn’t targeted his head, but the pepper shaker was still within reach and the day was still young. “They’re well over two hundred years old and gone. Their bones are dust, and who’s to say where they’re even buried, huh?” He shifted his stinging gaze to Nott. “Do you know?”

The younger man’s expression turned sympathetic, and he pulled a flask from out of the same pocket the portrait came from. “It’s after twelve in England, Mr. Granger. Why don’t you have a nip? It’ll relax you for the trip.”

“Trip?”

“To Ocracoke,” Blaise informed like it was obvious. “We’ll take the van, of course, and bring the little lads. It’s a bit last minute, I know, but pack an overnight bag. We may not be back until tomorrow.”

“Ocracoke?” Helena frowned. “That’s half a day’s trip, and we—”

“It can’t wait, I’m sorry.” Nott said. “The window is closing. If we don’t do this now, we can’t again until the winter solstice. We do this now, and you’ll have more time to prepare. Getting your affairs in order and all that.”

“For what?” she asked.

“To go back in time and find her.” Harry’s voice sounded broken as he ran a violent hand through his black locks. “So you or Dan can bring her home.”

Chapter Text

In truth, Helena Granger was easier going when it came to all that magic business in comparison to himself.

Ironic, given her deeply Christian nature.

Perhaps it made sense to her spirit, given the fantasticality of her deeply-rooted pagan ancestry. She embraced her Greco-Roman foundation, seeing beauty and wonder in its convoluted mythology. A trait she passed down to their daughter.

The more unexplainable something was, the more fascinating it became.

“Oh, my goodness, Blaise,” his wife chuckled anxiously, her beautiful blue eyes round in amazement. “How?”

The interior of Blaise’s brand new 2011 Odyssey had changed since Halloween night. The vehicle had once been able to snuggly seat eight average-sized individuals. In the van’s current condition, it could house a small army.

For Christ’s sake, there were stairs leading up to…somewhere?

“What in the bloody hell?” Dan cursed.

“A kitchen,” squeaked Helena, scrambling passed the chic sitting room to glide her hands over the shiny marble island. She turned around to gawk at the stacked oven behind her. She laughed like a mad woman and threw her head back. “Blaise, you have a home in your car.”

“So wicked!” Isaac exclaimed, throwing his small body into the center one of the Lovesacs in front of the massive telly.

Beside the cushiony furniture was a minifridge, and Joshua darted to it, throwing open the door. “There’s beer, juice, string cheese, and chocolate milk in here!”

“None of which you can have, sweetie,” Helena said, grinning from ear-to ear at Daniel. “This is incredible. Hermione described stuff like this all the time. Remember she had that queer bag she took everywhere with her? I could never imagine anything to this extent.”

Half-way through an illicitly filched butterbeer, Josh grabbed the remote for the telly and turned on the screen. Flipping through the channels, he settled on My Little Pony.

“That’s for girls,” Isaac declared but made no further argument, stabbing a sharp and yellow straw through his Capri Sun.

“Tyson's mum has a collection of My Little Ponies from, like, thirty years ago. He says he’ll get them all one day. They’re worth money or something.”

Isaac snorted. “Daddy says people thought that way about Beanie Babies. Right, Daddy?”

“Well, son—”

“What?” Helena frowned at her husband. “What nonsense have you told them?”

Dan scratched the back of his neck. “I might’ve told them we went a bit overboard in the nineties thinking they might one day be worth something—”

“They are! We’ve a first edition Princess Diana—”

“The exception, not the rule.”

“It will pay for the boys' college.”

“You know damn well Hermione’s got money stowed away for their schooling.”

“You’re going to let her do that?” Helena squawked.

“Let her? Let her? I can’t stop her from doing anything and never have. Can you say the same?”

His wife opened her mouth and then closed it. After a moment, she quietly confessed, “Nothing that really mattered.”

"She's excessively stubborn." He pinned her with a knowing and almost endeared look. "Just like someone else I know."

His wife flicked her rich, dark hair and then examined her nails, wiggling her wedding ring with a ghost of a triumphant smirk on her beautiful face. "I don't know what you mean, Daniel."

Blast, he loved her!

“Bedrooms are upstairs,” Blaise announced, forcing the mood to dissipate. He climbed into the sitting room while flexing his fingers into a pair of expensive-looking driving gloves. “Your names will appear on the doors when you approach them.”

“What did you do?” Harry bellowed, coming in after him.

“Holy shit, mate. This is all kinds of illegal” Dean Thomas whistled and shook his head as he entered the van.

Seamus Finnegan hastily rolled in like an overexcited puppy. “I’m still your co-pilot, right, Zabini?”

“Blaise never thinks laws apply to him, Potter,” Theo said, maneuvering his lanky form inside. Satchels and bulky bags were looped around his bony shoulders.

“Pardon?” Dan said as politely as he could. “What do you mean by co-pilot?”

“No! Absolutely fucking not!” Harry grabbed Blaise by the lapels of his jacket. “You’re not flying this thing. If it lifts even an inch off the ground, I’m arresting you!”

"Language, Harry," Helena chided, which fell on deaf ears.

“Good old Arthur helped me with the mechanisms of it, and Molly helped me design the kitchen. We got Invisibility Mode and everything working," explained Blaise.

“If you think that comforts me, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

“It should get you off my arse. You arrest me, Potter, I’m dragging your in-laws down with me.”

Harry turned an unhealthy shade of purple and eventually squeaked out, “You’re a very bad man.”

“Relax.” Blaise shirked Harry’s hold. “Everything is perfectly safe. No one here is a stranger to flying. Whether it’s a broom or an airplane.”

Harry shifted his gaze to Dan. “You ever travel before in a flying a house that’s actually a car?”

“Can’t say I have,” Dan said weakly, not at all thrilled with the idea of flying to North Carolina in a contraption originally American made and meant for ground-only adventures.

“I think it sounds brilliant,” his wife pitched importantly, not even an ounce of trepidation in her voice. She linked arms with her husband and smiled up at him. “It’s not across the ocean. It’s just the next state over.”

“Besides, it’ll make the journey more comfortable and give you some privacy away from the boys,” Blaise whispered. “Theo has more to discuss with you, too, and it’s best the boys don’t overhear.”

“Thomas, Finnegan, and I will be in the office when you’re ready, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” Nott said, pointing to a door that should’ve been one of the back-passenger windows.

“Lovely,” Hel gushed and retracted towards the kitchen again. “I’ll prepare us all a cuppa.”

The trip took a total of three hours, and quite honestly, “take off” was a breeze. The conversation he and Helena had with Theo might as well have been conducted in the coziest and festive log cabin equipped with a crackling fireplace, mini bar, mahogany desk, and reclining chairs. The ambiance was needed given the topic of discussion.

“Do you understand?” Theo asked gravely, eyes darting back and forth between Dan and Helena.

Daniel set down his half-empty teacup, his fingers trembling. His wife did the same and she straightened in her chair. “I will go. If it’s possible we can both…hear the stones. I will go get her.”

Theo’s eyes drilled into his wife’s forehead. His attempt to hide his thoughts were admirable but failing. He leaned back into his own chair, spindly fingers interlocking. “Mrs. Granger, I say this with the highest amount of respect for you, your daughter, and family. If it comes down to you being the only one able to travel…you still will not be going. We will find another way.”

“I beg your bloody pardon, young man—”

“Our boys, Hel,” Daniel said soothingly.

“My daughter, Dan!"

“It is one or both of us who can travel. If it’s not me, then nothing matters. Like Theo said, another way will be found.” He clocked Harry but couldn’t bring himself to dip his chin at Thomas, too. “They’ll ensure Hermione gets home.”

“Blaise said—”

“Every adult in this bloody vehicle knows you aren’t going, and that includes Blaise. It’s too dangerous, and I trust absolutely no one here with your safety.”

She lifted her chin, eyes blazing and looking ever so much like their daughter in that moment. “I can take care of myself.”

Daniel would’ve argued with her until it ended in angry sex, but there was no time to excuse themselves to a bedroom for that kind of privacy.

Blaise entered the room, removing his gloves and smirking. “Well, I think that all went well. Let's all retire to our designated rooms and freshen up. Put on some comfortable shoes and a rain jacket. We’ll be walking along the beach for a little while and then doing a bit of a climb.”

Upon entering their bedroom, both Daniel and Helena temporarily forgot about their argument and gawked at the fairytale honeymoon suite Blaise arranged for them. Immediately, they noticed the king-sized, canopy bed that faced a large window depicting an exquisite scenery of the Chateau d’Usse from a summery Loire Valley.

Helena gasped. “This…Oh, my goodness! Our honeymoon, Dan. That’s where we went.”

“I remember,” he said, amazed. “Blaise, you bloody madman.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and began pacing the room, admiring the detail of the wooding, floor, cabinets, and dressers.

Popping his head into the bathroom, he coughed out a chuckle. “Hel, the bathtub in here is—”

He was cut off when a mass of fabric hit him in the face. Yanking the garment off him, he recognized it as his wife’s shirt. He turned around to ask what the deal was when a bra and a pair of knickers hit him the chest. Before him stood the most beautiful woman in the world in all her naked glory.

“Um…” he said.

“Take off your clothes,” she demanded, demurely placing her rather fit bottom—still rather perky and proud for a fifty-four-year-old—on the edge of the bed.

“Don’t we have to—” he lamely attempted.

Her brows raised. “Right now, Dan. I want you now.”

“Quite,” he choked out, scrambling to disrobe.

“Sorry. So sorry,” Helena breathlessly wheezed when climbing out of the van. Smoothing back her hair into a ponytail and nibbling cutely on her bottom lip. Her cheeks were vibrant, and through a mischievous grin, she relayed another apology. “Sorry. We lost track of time.”

Dan wordlessly followed suit, trying and failing to avoid the knowing looks of the others who were waiting for them. Harry and Theo looked uncomfortably embarrassed, and Blaise showed nothing but how pleased he was with himself. Thomas and Finnegan seemed to find their shoes interesting, although their lips quivered.

“Finally,” Isaac burst, throwing his small hands up in the air.

“We were waiting forever for you,” Josh added, hopping back and forth on his feet, staring hungrily at the beach.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dan warned.

“Which reminds me.” Helena extracted two leashes from her satchel and clipped them onto the boys’ backpacks.

“But Muuuuuum!” they whined in unison.

"Best present Hermione ever gave us." Dan helped his wife tightening the tethers.

"I still have nightmares about Parc Astérix," she confessed.

“Same. Nott, how far are the stones from here?” asked Dan, shielding his eyes with a hand and squinting at his surroundings. They were safely tucked away at an unbusy carpark facing the beach.

The weather was surprisingly balmy, and the sky relatively clear for November. The sands were populated with people and pets, and the waters home to sailboats and diehard body-suited surfers wishing for a decent wave.

“Less than a mile,” Theo said, drawing with his pointer finger a pathway from where they were to where they needed to go. “We’ll be starting backwards on Springer’s Point but then cut across halfway through. The stones are easy to spot and frequently visited by off-the-path hikers, historians, and those with Indigenous American heritage wanting to know what they mean and why.”

Helena frowned and cocked her head. “For how many visitors it gets, wouldn’t there be more records and incidents of time traveling?”

“It is incredibly rare for a person to have this ability, not to mention for them to even go through the portal and survive. Think of all those standing stones across the United Kingdom and how often people go near them, yet nothing happens. Through mine and Draco’s research, we were only able to theorize that magical ability or potency meant nothing to the stones. This frustrated Draco and was one of the many things that may've caused him to believe a sacrifice needed to happen. Standing stones didn’t call to him. They don’t call to me. They don’t call to Blaise.”

“Or me,” Harry confessed jadedly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jumper. “Found out this last week. Made several trips to several different duns and standing stones just to see if there was a chance I could be the one to help.” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be the one to go back.”

“Ginny would’ve loved that,” Blaise muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes heavenward.

“We’ll see if Finnegan and I can,” Thomas offered, not looking convinced either one of them had the capability. “Out of all the Aurors, we’d be most likely to do it given what Nott told us. If not, we may have to outsource.”

"Dennis would like helping out, I'm sure," Finnegan said. "He's been half in love with Hermione for ages."

“The thing is, the stones appear to favor non-typical-magical heritage,” Theo continued.

“Like Hermione,” Helena interjected. “Because Dan and I don’t have magic, and she does.”

“Eh,” Theo noised, waving his hand from side to side. “It’s all hypothetical at this point because now I know, thanks to the painting, that a bloody Squib traveled more than once from her own present to the past. During one of those time periods, she painted Hermione.”

“Hermione sat for this artist twice,” Blaise blurted.

“What?” Harry, Dan, and Helena said all at once.

“Morgana’s fetching arse, Blaise,” Theo hissed, aggressively massaging his eyeballs with his thumb and middle finger.

“They deserve to know, don’t they? You’ve told them this much.”

Dan eyed the thin, sad man distrustfully. A kind of sickly rage began to simmer inside his chest. For the first time since Hermione gave him that impromptu cardioversion, he felt his heart rhythm fluttering.

He brought a hand to his chest, glaring at Theo. “There’s another portrait. Where did you find it? How? Do you have it with you? Let me see it.”

“Mr. Granger, I’m sorry, but I don’t think—”

Blaise pulled out his wand from his coat and waved it at Theo’s satchel. Not a moment later, a long cylinder capsule popped out like the one from earlier and flew into Blaise’s hands.

“Whoa,” Josh hummed out reverently

“Wicked!” shouted Isaac.

“Give it back, Blaise!” Theo yelled, extending his hand. “Don’t do this. Don’t show them.”

Helena rubbed at her throat, grimacing at the tube. “She’s undressed in it, isn't she?”

Blaise’s eyes bugged out of his head, and then doubled over cackling.

“What, no!” Theo said, aghast. “Hermione would never immortalize herself in such a manner, Mrs. Granger. Worry not. You've raised a good girl, I promise.”

Blaise's laughing turned violently evil at that.

Helena exhaled in relief, smiling. “Oh, thank God. Then I don’t need to know at this point if you think I shouldn’t. You have my trust, Theo. Whether you think you deserve it or not, it’s yours.”

She snapped her gaze to Blaise, stabbing in the arm with her fingernail. “You, I don’t trust, young man. Hand it back over to Theo right now.”

The deranged mirth from Blaise’s expression contorted into fury and then boldly—in Helena’s and God’s direct line of sight—forcibly placed the tube in Daniel’s arms.

“Blaise, for Merlin’s sake—”

“It’s not about being deserving,” he said. “They need to know, so one of them can tell Hermione what’s to come.”

“You can’t mess with time like that,” Theo argued hotly. “Blaise, if the Department of Mysteries ever find out I stole that canvas and was involved with sending Muggles or Squibs back in time on purpose—”

“Don’t think about your weird-arse job right now, mate. Think of Hermione. You and I both know what’ll happen if we don’t send a warning. Can you live with that? I can't. Not after what the love of her life did to her. What our best friend did on our watch.”

“I…” Theo dropped his head. “I will have to.”

“Well, I bloody think this is all bunch of time-wasting load of tosh.” Harry yanked the tube from Dan and hurriedly unraveled it. Outstretching the canvas revealing a superlative charcoal sketch as opposed to a painting, he slapped it on the side-door of the van and scraped his monocled gaze from top to bottom and back up.

“Oh,” Helena said, her voice soft with trepidation. She shuffled closer to Dan and leaned her swaying body against him. “Oh, Dan, I’m not feeling so well. I think I need to sit for a minute.”

“We’ll look after the kids,” Blaise offered, ticking his head towards the beach and taking ahold of the boys' leashes. “Take your time. We’ll be down at the shore when you’re ready.”

Pushing aside his own questions and emotions, Daniel escorted his wife back into the van and had her rest at one of the barstools in the kitchen. Rifling through the cupboard, he found a package of chocolate digestives and placed a few on a plate for her to nibble on while he prepared her a cup of tea.

“It may not mean anything,” Dan tried after a few minutes, sliding the cup and saucer towards her.

Helena scowled as she miserably stirred her chai. “I had wondered, you know. About the black clothes. The mourning dresses.”

“You couldn’t have possibly guessed the reason why.”

“No, no. I certainly couldn’t have.”

“We still don’t know for sure—”

“The drawing. You saw the date at the bottom. It was 1773 and a near perfect replica of the one done in 1774. There was only one difference…well, two if I’m being particular. Hermione’s visibly pregnant in this new one.”

“I-I didn’t notice,” Dan lied pathetically. “Are you sure? It could’ve been just the shading—”

“And there are two young girls, Daniel, not just the one.”

 “That doesn’t mean—”

“And that younger one looks exactly like Hermione.”

“Don’t be jumping to conclusions.”

“Not like Lysandra. Hermione.” Snatching the wallet from his pocket, Helena flipped through the slots and peeled back a certain one displaying a three-year-old Hermione. “Like our baby.”

“The hair’s different. It’s more wavy than curly in the sketch.”

“Where is she? Why wasn’t she in the painting?”

“Hel—”

“I want to know. I demand it, Daniel Granger!

Dan exhaled, scratching his head. “You know, I think what we should really be worried about is the blond boy? The one that looks like Draco. How does that even make sense?”

Helena made a disgruntled noise and shoved the wallet into Dan’s chest before storming out of the van. “Let’s go. The sooner we find out who can travel through the stones, the sooner we’ll get our answers.”

The entire jaunt, short as it was, brimmed with awkward silence with the exception for the boys’ chitter-chattering. They also had an incessant need of picking up and turning over every sizeable rock they happened upon. No one really had a chance to enjoy the beauty of the quaint little island, nor the vastness of the nearby ocean. For a small amount of time, they trudged along the designated trail before Harry and Theo led the group off the path. The incline wasn’t terribly steep and within fifteen minutes, Dan began to hear a terribly bothersome racket.

“What is that?” he lamented, raising a hand in preparation to swat away a swarm of impending bees.

“What is what?” his wife asked, frowning.

“That noise,” Dean said. “Sounds like bloody buzzing bees.”

Harry blanched at Dean and then made a face towards the incline of the hill. “Not you? Seamus, you can hear something can’t you?”

Seamus lifted his ear and shook his head and directed a hostile look towards Dean. "You’re not going.”

Helena craned her neck, looking around and frowning. “I don’t hear anything or see any bees.”

The group reached the apex of the hill and saw the stones which weren’t quite like the ones in in the UK and Ireland. Dan wouldn't even call them a proper dun. The slabs of granite-like rock were few while the other “standing-stones” were made of flattish stacked conglomerate.  A handful of teenagers seated in the center yelped and cursed in surprise at their arrival and hastily left them alone, joints and bong vases in hand. The air they left behind smelled of Axe body spray and marijuana.

At their approach, the sound of buzzing increased and became nigh unbearable, and yet Dan found himself being called to the tallest stone of the circle. He inched closer, hands outreached and ready to touch. When he was mere centimeters from the rock, Blaise popped up beside him and forced him back towards the group.

“Easy there, mate. You’re not ready and haven't a gemstone on you.”

Dan shook his head and glanced at the others, notice Finnegan had an unrelenting grip on Thomas’ shirt.

“You keep ahold of him,” ordered Harry, pointing at Finnegan.

“I’m not letting him go,” the Irishman snapped.

“Hands off, Seamus,” Dean said, his words soft, but his wriggling to get free was on the more violent side. Brushing off his sleeves, he gave Harry a meaningful stare. “I know what this means. I know you wanted it to be Seamus, but it’s me. I’m going.”

“The hell you are,” Finnegan cursed.

“Anyone else hear it?” Theo asked, almost desperately.

“Hermione would do the same for me.”

Thomas' claim was both confident and calm. His voice was incredibly alluring, and he was an attractive man. If Dan fancied men, he’d be swooning over the lad. His voice sounded like a warm cup of milk chocolate on a cold winter’s night. It wasn’t any wonder Finnegan was grasping so hard.

“I see no reason why I can’t go alone,” Dan supplied, his head beginning to ache from the buzzing. “If Hermione can make it from the Caribbean to Virginia, I can make the journey, just a colony north."

“I doubt she was alone. Plus, your daughter likely lied, cheated, and stole to get as far as she did. Who knows? I wouldn’t even be surprised if she even kill—”

“Blaise, do shut up,” Theo hissed.

“What I’m trying to say,” Blaise continued, “is that the 18^th century, both Muggle and magical, sucked pimply arse.”

“You know the history, Mr. Granger,” Thomas piped up. “There are thousands of ways you could die before you even reach the Virginian border, and that doesn’t even include murder.”

Dan couldn’t for the life of him see how Thomas traveling with him would make his chances of living through the impending ordeal any better.

“I know the history, my lad, but do you?”

Thomas lifted his chin and smiled serenely, and Dan wondered if he was a little bit stoned or if being frighteningly cool-headed was his natural state. “I’m not afraid, Mr. Granger.”

“Now Dean,” Helena started maternally, putting her hands on her hips. “Think of Hermione’s perspective. How do you think she’d feel—given your beautiful complexion—if you showed up—?”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Granger,” Dean said, stroking his jaw and cheeks. “You know, it was Hermione who convinced me having a seven-step skin-care routine would—”

“That’s not what I meant, sweetheart—”

“You’re an idiot, and I’m calling your mam and sisters,” Finnegan hissed, grabbing Thomas’ cellphone from his pocket and sprinting away.

Dean’s wistful expression promptly dissolved into one of life-threatened panic. “Shit,” he muttered and darted after him.

Dan watched the two take off and then felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a grim Theo.

“You know what this means, Mr. Granger,” he said.

Dan blew out a clumsy, shaky breath and nodded. His throat swelled and when his wife and sons came up to him, tears clouded his vision. “I-I do."

He’ll have to leave Helena and his boys.

Another hand touched his arm. It was Harry's “You don’t have to go, Daniel. We can find another way.”

“Or Hermione will find a way home,” Blaise remarked.

“No.” The word tumbled thickly out his mouth, unable to hide his emotions nor his doubt. “No. I’ll go to her. I’ll find her. Because what if…what if she doesn’t come home? Not because she can’t but because…she chooses to stay. I didn’t fight hard enough the last time she chose a man over her family. I will this time. I’ll bring her home, Hel, I promise you.”

“Daniel,” his wife crooned, cupping his face and bringing his lips down to hers. Between kisses, she spoke, “But what if she’s in love? The portraits, darling. I just wonder. You know how our daughter is.”

Dan brought his wife close to his chest, resting his chin atop her head. “I know she’ll do all sorts of silly willy things when she thinks she likes a boy, but she won’t give up her wand or magic or the sensibleness modern day offers.”

Helena released a heartbreaking sob. “She would for her children.”

He closed his eyes, his hold tightening on her. “I can’t think about that right now.”

Over his wife’s head, Theo gave a bitter smile. “I wish there was more I could tell you, but I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t,” Blaise commented.

“As an Unspeakable, I took a vow. Revealing anymore would put my life, health, and career at risk,” Theo revealed. “Or worse. The timeline could be disrupted. Messing with the past can make the present worse. Hermione’s existence could practically evaporate. Mr. Granger, as you prepare for this journey in the next several months—"

“Months?”

“—keep in mind how careful you must be when you get to 1769.”

“Why can’t I go sooner?”

“It’s winter, and you are an upper-middle class man of comfort who is not seasoned for a pre-climate change era,” Theo said. “Sending you out next month or anytime before March is risky. April would be preferrable.”

“That’s too bloody long. Hermione could be—”

“Aside from it being too bloody cold, you’ll need this time to prepare for dangers lurking in every wild corner of colonial America,” Harry interrupted. “Money, clothes, medicine. Vaccines. Loads and loads of vaccines. We’ll make arrangements with WHO in getting you what you need over the next few months. And see that this holiday season you let yourself go a little bit. Put on a stone or maybe two of both muscle and fat. I’ll stress the importance now of enrolling in a martial arts class. Blaise will teach you how to duel with a sword, knife, and cutlass.”

“I beg your pardon—”

“Also, on a scale of one to ten, how comfortable are you in firing a gun, Mr. Granger?” asked Theo.

“Oh, well,” Dan said, chuckling anxiously in absolute horror. “I can’t say—”

“At a person,” added Harry gravely.

Lynchburg, Virginia

November 1768

“There you are.”

Hermione looked up from her notes at John and retired her quill, looking up at the library’s cuckoo clock.

“I’m late for dinner,” she said, not sorry.

"You missed dinner, and no one knew where you were hiding. I should've known."

“I lost track of time. I’ve been preparing lessons. Let me just gather up these papers. If you could grab the stack of books just right there? We can go over the itinerary. I haven’t seen you since the Washingtons left. What’ve you been up to today?”

John frowned at the four tombs, five novels, and three booklets stacked on the table.

“May I be frank, my dear? Enchanting as I imagine it would be to mull over the children’s schedule, I invited you to my study for a private meeting to show you a book that came into my possession. Well…not a book. A manuscript is a more apt term. A fellow comrade I know who’s currently stationed in India sent it to me. He’s a lover of literature and culture. Fascinating place, India. Have you ever been?”

“I haven't had the pleasure,” Hermione lied. “But I’ve been fortunate enough to try some of their spices. I’m fond of the nutmeg and chili powder.” Clutching the papers to her chest, she asked, “What manuscript did this man send you? Is it something I can incorporate into the syllabi? You’ve caught me at the perfect time, John. On Monday, we are starting our two-week journey into world religions. Buddhism is such a fascinating belief. And it’s more than just a creed identifier but a vast theological mindset. I do hope there are sketches in the manuscript of some of the temples.”

“Um…” A deep red bloomed on John’s cheeks. “Why, yes, there are as a matter of fact?”

First and foremost, Hermione couldn’t read a lick of anything on the title page of the manuscript. The text looked to be in Sanskrit, and she may be a polyglot, but even she had limits.

Opening to the first page, she spoke a soft and elongated, “Oh,” at the impressively detailed sketches. Her fingers quivered, and butterflies erupted inside her stomach.

In her hands, she held a hand-written and hand-illustrated Kama Sutra.

“My goodness, Lord John." Nibbling on her bottom lip, she peered up at him. “This is…oh, I certainly can’t show the children this.”

“I don’t know,” chuckled John a tad bashfully. “Adam and Henry might like it well enough.”

“They’re babies." She flipped to the third page and traced a careful fingertip over the lovers, immortalized by a painstaking paintbrush. “The artwork, it’s…”

“Scandalous, I know,” he whispered, inching closer to her. He placed his hands at her waist, his thumbs beneath the swell of her breast. “Thank you for wearing the green dress. You’re so beautiful.”

“Hm?” She spared him another look before returning to her assessment of the manuscript. He must be going blind. After the hectic day she had, she felt sexy as a greasy and constipated platypus. “I was going to say brilliant, but you aren’t wrong.”

“I take it your delicate sensibilities aren’t offended,” he remarked, placing a crooked finger underneath her chin.

Hermione smiled toothily up at him. “I was married for nearly a decade and was able to afford a great amount of privacy during our union. I’m certain I’ve done all of these tricks and then some.”

“All of them? You haven’t seen all the portraits.”

“I’ve heard of this manuscript. Don’t let the portraits fool you. It’s not a guide on sex and pleasure—”

“No?”

“This is an incredibly rare piece of text for cultural introduction on courting rituals, happy marriages, communication, and maintaining the romance throughout companionship.” She gazed up at him adoringly and opened to a random page where one of the pictures displayed what had been nicknamed the Wheelbarrow in her time. “It’s about love, my lord.”

John reached and flipped a few pages, pointing at specific scene. "And is that love, Hermione?"

She closed the manuscript and set it down—cheeks burning and her lower belly warming—and replaced it with Willie’s syllabus before handing it to John. “Anyway, speaking of communication, there are a few things I’ve changed. Also, we need to have that conversation we planned for last night. If you wish to have me at your beck and call this following week, you owe me a list of the ladies you’ve bedded.”

John’s brow was furrowed and sat down on the sofa, his blue eyes skimming over Willie’s syllabus.

"Well?" she inquired, joining him.

“You want Willie and the others to learn about domesticities well below their stations."

Her eyes rolled. When John wasn't keeping himself in check, that inner-snob sprinted right out of him. “I will be learning along with them. I've arranged it with Caroline, and I'll be paying her a sum for it—"

"Absolutely not—"

"Absolutely, yes. Knowing one’s way around a kitchen and laundry is a necessity. So is gardening and animal husbandry. It’s idealistic to think they’ll always have servants to take care of things.”

John leaned his head back. “I do see your argument, Hermione, but you paying Caroline for the instructions is out of the question. It'll come from my purse. Most importantly, Hal won’t like this new arrangement and neither will Lady Dunsany. Minnie will side with you, I’m sure.” Clearing his throat, he returned to studying the piece of parchment. “And what’re these plays about? You want to do two at Christmas and two in spring. The...Nativity?. I'm surprised at you."

"Lady Dunsany was the one who brought it up over lunch, and I don't mind a bit of Luke every now and then."

He squinted at one of her doodled notes in the margin. "And you want Caroline's baby to be baby Jesus? I don't know. People won't like that. He being black and all."

"I've met some people who believe Jesus was."

John delivered her an incredulous look. "Maybe Christopher Bobwhite's baby. Edmund. He's a handsome lad."

"You want to exchange a perfectly handsome black baby for a perfectly handsome brown baby. That makes complete sense. I see your thinking." Huffing, Hermione furrowed her brow and stuck up her nose. "Are there any Israeli Jews about? Maybe they have a baby we can borrow if you're concerned about such things. Or how about an actual pregnant virgin, hm?"

"What exactly is A Christmas Carol? " asked John, hastily changing the subject. "Why not The Winter’s Tale and then A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream for late spring? I’ve looked and relooked. You don’t have a single Shakespeare lesson.”

“For an oral exam next month, each of them must recite a poem, sonnet, or a section of dialogue from a literature piece of their choosing. I am fully prepared to receive at least three of Sonnet 18. Besides, Dr Faustus is an underappreciated work. I think the older children will enjoy spending a few days picking it apart. I want them to learn unfamiliar and uncomfortable concepts while at the same time having fun. Marlowe is just the beginning.”

“Fun,” John said, confused. “Education isn’t about fun. It's about discipline—”

“I used to think so, too, but there’s a time and place for all things. Even I would struggle making 1346 amusing. I may have a joke or two up my sleeve for the Great Schism. As for the Reformation, it’s one big joke in itself—”

“All right, that’s enough.” John tossed aside the parchment. “You’re toeing the line, Madam.”

"My lord, I can't stress the cataclysmic effect it has had on western Europe and the colonies here. The ripples are still being felt as we speak from Henry VIII's religious and cultural upheaval.  Please see that these are good things the children will learn." She scooted closer to him and began petting the top of his head and down towards the tapering of his clubbed hair, ensuring her nails delicately dragged. "Good things that Willie will learn. Imagine how prepared and cultured he'll be for university and when he comes into his full inheritance and is received at court. Everyone will be so impressed with him. Maybe even your king."

Hermione continued her ministrations. "You have such nice hair, my lord. I bet anything most men are jealous of how lovely it is. You've no lice, dandruff, or balding spots. I bet even Pardloe is jealous. You don't have to wear wigs if you don't want to. And you're so handsome. I love your eyes. I like how blue they are like the midday sky."

John looked at her and then away, visibly deflating.

Her heart softened, and she realized something horrible. Something tragic.

She hadn’t kissed him at all today.

He gave her two good orgasms earlier, and yet their lips hadn’t touched at all.

She cupped his face and planted a quick, wet smooch on his mouth.

And then one more for good measure because he tasted like brandy, and she was beginning to miss alcohol.

"Thank you for reading through the syllabi, but you know what's coming next."

"Hermione—"

"Please. You promised."

"I don't recall making such a pledge—"

"My lord, please," she said, rubbing her nose against his. "It's important to me, and I told you about my lovers. I laid it out for you and had more to lose from it."

"All..." He groaned unhappily, pressing his forehead against hers. "All right."

Ten or so minutes later, they sat beside each other on the sofa. Hermione's thoughts were heavy with the four, faceless women he spoke of. He gave her nothing beyond their names.

Pouring herself a very full cup of tea, she drank deeply from it before speaking. "I have a question, John. About the women. Were any of them prostitutes?"

His cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of pink. "What kind of gentleman do you take me for?"

Unconcerned, she stole another healthy gulp from her cup. "I saw even the most charitable and Christian enter and exit Jamaican brothels."

John all but slammed his brandy on the coffee table and then stood up to pace. After a minute, he rested by the mantle and stared dully up at the ceiling. "It's not...Hermione. It's unseemly to talk about—"

"I have allowed your invasion into my body and soul without matrimony. I have compromised by social-standing to give and to be given pleasure. I will lose everything if anyone beyond your brother and Minnie find out, and you will lose nothing. Now, John, I won't think less of you. I'm also positive you wouldn't have had sex with a woman if she appeared unwell. You wouldn't have compromised your health or your future relationships. I know you are a gentleman and intelligent. You're a good man, selfless, and a considerate lover."

Hermione patted the space next to her and like a chided child, John dragged his feet back to her and flopped onto the sofa. She laid her cheek on his chest. Widening her eyes at him in brazen manipulation, she whispered ever so softly, "I will still love you, no matter what you tell me. It's how I am. I'm incredibly silly that way."

“But will you still like me, Hermione?”

“That depends. Were you kind to the prostitutes? Did you treat and pay them well?”

"Yes. Yes, of course. When boys become men," he started, dragging his eyes to carefully fixate on the ceiling and not on her, "there's a coming-of-age part where it's expected for them to have that kind of experience. The young man's father or, in my case, Hal brought me to a brothel when I was fourteen. A good brothel."

Hermione had no idea there was such a thing but assumed he meant an "upscale" den of an iniquity and not a dingy, flea-infested one full of emotionally broken women of a pox-ed nature. 

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I don't wish to go into specifics, but no."

She nodded, placing her hand on his. "My late husband was also fourteen when he was taken to a brothel by his father."

"You're uncle?"

"...yes." Hermione cleared her throat and continued. "What Draco learned was hollow and fleeting. He learned nothing of value because he was an emotionally-insufficient twat. Not to mention the woman wished for a heavy amount of coin, so there was no receiving on her end. Only giving. He learned nothing of readying the terrain for an invasion beyond squishing women's breasts like they were yeasty balls of dough. Boys at that age are not men at all. I don't care what anyone says or believes. They are selfish, obnoxious, frighteningly smelly, and ill-equipped to understand the propriety of unanimous pleasure."

John barked out a short-lived laugh, and she felt the tension leave him. After a moment, he continued speaking and, this time, more comfortably. "The next time I bedded...that kind of woman was before I married. My work had kept me busy. I hadn't shared a bed with someone in a long time before Isobel."

That was a lie if she ever heard one, but Hermione didn't comment.

"I wanted to make sure I could please her as a husband," he further explained.

"And did that prepare you?"

"Hardly. It turns out a sheltered maiden bride and a seasoned prostitute can have varying ideas when it comes to sex."

Hermione raised her brow and gifted him an endeared, slanted smile. Shifting onto her knees, she smooched him on the cheek and then took his hand and kissed the back of that, too. "Thank you for telling me about them. I know it was hard for you."

He said nothing but stared dramatically at a corner bit of the ceiling as if waiting for cracks to appear and everything to cave in.

"You know, John," she tried gently, rubbing comforting circles over chest. “I think there’s something else we should talk about.”

He groaned, pinching his eyes shut. “Oh, God, what now, woman?”

“Mmm. Perhaps it can wait.” She nipped at his bottom lip and climbed into his lap, untying his cravat. "So...what exactly did you have in mind about that manuscript?"

To be continued...

Chapter Text

A warm hand covered Hermione’s mouth, and her eyes flew open to see Charlotte’s glowing face inches from her own. The girl held a candle one and removed her other palm to press a finger to her lips.

“Come,” she said in the quietest of voices. “Before anyone sees. His Grace is already awake, and Her Grace is helping Lady Dunsany dress. The children are up, and I’m supposed to be helping them get ready. Breakfast will be served very soon.”

Hermione heart stuttered.

Lady Dunsany’s room was just across the hallway.

She rolled out from under John’s bed covers, naked as the day she was born. John grumbled unintelligibly but did not stir, save to shift onto his back and spread out his limbs like he was a starfish. He was so bloody adorable, Hermione had to refrain from crawling back onto the bed and kissing him awake.

Charlotte grabbed her discarded chemise that was on the floor and tossed it to her. The fabric was cold against Hermione’s skin, making her nipples pebble and bringing attention to their chapped tenderness from John’s late-night attention.

Crusted seed coated her thighs and the creases of her bottom. Shame bloomed on her cheeks. She and John made love three times in the night—not counting the string of earth-shattering climaxes he evoked from her in between romps. The first time happened in his study on the rug. They had been aiming for the chaise but fell-short quite literally and frantically tore the clothes from each other’s bodies, so they could rut against one another like it was mating season. There was no finesse or sweetness in their copulating. That damned manuscript got her lover all excited, and now rugburns and bruises littered both their bodies.

The second time happened in his bed and was no less rough or wild. Thankfully, she had the sense to throw up a Silencing Charm when John set up camp between her legs and devoured her like a half-starved wolf presented with the meaty carcass of a wild hog. The entire house was completely unaware of the goings-on in the master chambers. They didn’t hear the headboard banging against the wall, nor her shrieks, and his loud and lusty moans.

Like the morning before, the third time happened in the wee hours of the morning. It was gentle and sensuously sleepy. John couldn’t be bothered to not lethargically flood her womb with his seed, and she wasn’t awake enough to do anything but say a sluggish, “uh oh,” to her pillow before falling back into a deep, dreamful state. He may’ve mumbled some sort of sound into her neck that might’ve been an apology before drifting back to sleep, as well.

Clothes, shoes, and stockings bunched to her chest, Charlotte led Hermione out of John’s room. Hermione cinched her lips together, breathing through her nose. When they reached the stairs, Hermione was unable to suppress any hissing or hobbling as she climbed them.

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. “I readied a bath for you of chamomile and lavender, ma’am. Mama said it’ll help.”

Mortified, Hermione stared at the back of Charlotte’s white, capped head.

“Charlotte?” she inquired, hesitant.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Was it your mum who told you to come and get me?”

They reached the second level and walked side-by-side towards Hermione’s door. Her eyes were downcast “Yes, ma’am. She knew you were with Lord John.”

“How did she know?”

“Mama knows everything that goes on in this house and in Master Bobwhite’s.”

Hermione frowned, calculating how much she’d have to pay or wondering what she could offer to Caroline to not say anything about her affair with John.

“I see,” she said after a moment.

Charlotte lifted her chin and then hastily lowered it. “She won’t say anything, ma’am. I won’t either. I promise. She likes you and running her mouth would only harm you and her. If she did, Lord John would punish her for talking—”

Hermione shook her head. “Lord John wouldn’t hurt her, Charlotte.”

The young girl remained unconvinced.

“Maybe not whippings or beatings, but he could make it that she wouldn’t find work. He could make it that Master Bobwhite wouldn’t keep her under his employment or on his property. That would be bad for Mama and Daddy. Everyone likes to hear secrets, but no one is going to risk bringing someone onto their land that’ll spill theirs. Plus…she’s only free here in Virginia. She’d be a slave anywhere else. She's not going to mess with that.”

Laughter and the sound of wet, splashy commotion came from the nursery, and Charlotte grimaced at those double doors. “Those little mmmpphh.” She pressed her full lips together and shook her head. “There they go making more work for me.”

“I’ll go sort them out,” Hermione said, starting towards the nursery.

Charlotte shook her head, holding up her hand. “Uh uh. Not looking like you do. The younger ones’ll just think you fell down the stairs and caught the ague on the way to the bottom. The older boys’ll know, ma’am. They’ll know you were sinning up a storm last night. Now have your bath before the water gets cold. I'll handle this.”

Hermione watched the young woman march up to the double doors and throw them open, ducking and shrieking when Patsy’s parakeet came soaring into the hallway.

Sinking into the warm water nearly caused Hermione to black out from utter bliss. The tension left her body, and the aches subsided to a dull awareness. Her lady parts stung, however, as did the rugburns on her knees, elbows, and back.

After a long, luscious soak, she vacated the vessel and padded to the full length mirror to assess the damage. Shifting to see her posterior, she peered over her shoulder and winced at the bruises on her hips and bum.

Hermione covered her face, hiding her reflection from herself before morosely donning a clean chemise and stays.

What was she doing? Why was she doing this? How could she let herself fall in love with John? It was absolute stupidity. She still loved…damn it, she still loved Draco.

She reflected on the conversation she had with Claire, and how the woman told her she was unable to help herself when it came to falling in love with Jamie and out of love with her first husband. Frank was his name, and she explained how her heart seemed to only have room for one.

So Claire made a choice and one of her reasonings was knowing Jamie was her soulmate.

Hermione didn’t believe in soulmates and thought Claire was simply justifying her selfishness and infidelity.

When Hermione was a teenager and up until she and Ron went their separate ways, she believed in soulmates. She recalled the fiery conviction in her heart after the war, that certainty. At eighteen, without a shadow of a doubt, she was convinced Ronald Weasley was her soulmate.

Ron felt the same way about her. Her voice from the Deluminator led him to find her in the Forest of Dean at both of their lowest points during the war.

And then they didn’t marry. They didn’t get their happily ever after. He moved on and found love again a year or so after they broke up. He married someone else--Pansy Parkinson of all people--and Hermione was a bridesmaid at their wedding for his wife. Second godmother to their children. There were no hard feelings or jealousy. In fact, Hermione usually had tea with Mrs. Ronald Weasley two to three times a month before all this time-travelling bother happened.

Life can be short, but it can also be too long to live with a broken heart. How many people throughout history lost their “supposed soulmate” to death, adultery, insecurities, mental illness, or simply being bored of their significant other? How many of them were able to heal enough to find love again?

Though Hermione indulged herself in serial-dating for a few years after Ron, it was Draco that stirred within her those same sentiments. She never compared the love she had for each of them. Both relationships came with their set of difficulties but were no less beautiful and fulfilling. Her feelings for Ron and Draco were unique in the sense that she never fell out of love with former. Even thinking back to Viktor Krum and her other crushes and brief romances made her a bit twitterpated.

Hermione’s heart wasn’t like Claire’s. Her heart was built to accommodate not eliminate and when it molded around its new interest, it held on tight and didn’t let go. Her mind would and could, but her heart not so much.

Her heart never released Ron, and it wouldn't Draco either, despite his actions, and she was ashamed of her weakness for not truly hating him. She felt like a fool because deep down she didn’t want to divorce him. Hex him within an inch of his life, yes. Lock him up for the rest of his days and away from her, yes. But not divorce. Not just because of what it would require—having his child—but because the thought of their marriage and bond ending made her sick. There was such a finality to it. A treacherous realism one couldn't come back from. Because if she freed herself in that way, then there would be that expectation...no. That excuse. It would be an excuse for her logical mind to let go of Draco and reflect on John and Willie, wondering if there was a way...

Hermione exhaled, aggravated because she wasn't even sure if Draco was still in 2010. She couldn't make all parts of a divorce happen without him there. Given what she and Claire discussed, Hermione was leaning towards no. Draco wasn't able to travel back in time through the portal. But...if he had been successful, Hermione was certain he wasn't in 1768. He and his wand would've found her by now if he had.

As for wondering if there was a way back to this time...

All Time Turners were broken, and she couldn't even bring herself to list Craigh na Dun or the portal in Hispaniola as an option in returning.

Not that she would go through with it.

That would be barmy.

Mad.

Preposterous.

Why would she come back here or even try?

It would be entirely in the realm of possibility just travelling through Craigh na Dun from 1769 to 2011 might kill her. Claire mentioned if Hermione wasn't careful and mindful in her approach, she could come out the other side dead and half-burnt to a crisp.

Or...maybe even get stuck and not even remerge anywhere at all.

Damn it, Draco! Why? 

The two of them were supposed to continue building their dream lives and grow old together before all this happened. Eventually have that perfect baby or maybe two. It was supposed to be them against the world. Her father had finally gotten around to having Draco call him Mr. Granger instead of Dr. Granger or Sir. She wasn’t supposed to be subconsciously making room for someone else, falling in love, and shagging the daylights out of him.

She wasn’t supposed to be having a child with someone else.

It was too soon to know for sure, but…but she swore she felt a queer twinge in her lower abdomen a few nights ago while sleeping. The sensation hadn’t been enough to wake her but when she logged in her dream journal the following morning, she quilled out the dream that came with it.

Not quite a dream, she supposed.

More like she sensed a presence and heard a voice.

I’m here, it said.

That next morning when she went to use the chamber pot, she noticed small, smeary traces of pinkish blood on her inner thighs and nether lips.

“I’m not pregnant,” she whispered aloud to no one, tears blurring her vision. “I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant.”

I’m here, the voice said again.

“Shush,” she said to it.

But then John’s words from the other night refilled her ears.

“I want you…you are the most bloody brilliant woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. A man couldn’t ask for a better woman to not only to nurture and love them but educate and fiercely protect them. You are so maternal, Hermione. In this life, I imagine one of the many wondrous destinies you are meant for is motherhood. It would be an honor and privilege to be the one to make that happen for you, even if by folly.”

Before the cockles of her heart warmed too hotly, Hermione reminded herself how dangerous those bloody stones were. Claire expressed concern that if she herself were to ever go through them again, she'd likely die.

Hermione liked John well enough.

And loved him, ill-advised as it was.

But she wasn't about charge back here to him if it was going to kill her. What sense would that make?

Claire knew that was a risk when returning to Jamie and did it anyway.

Jesus Christ, she left her daughter for, not one, but two big fat MAYBES.

Maybe Jamie is alive, and maybe she won't die going through the scary rock chasm for the third time.

What. A. Lunatic.

And Hermione's father thought she did silly willy things when infatuated.

A knock on the door interrupted her internal confliction. “Yes?” she called out, wiping at the dew under her eyes.

“It’s me, ma’am,” Charlotte said.

Hermione unlocked the door and let her in, the young girl bemusedly eyeing Hermione’s stays and its lazily loosened strings. 

“I don’t want them so tight today,” she said. “We’re not going to church, anyway.”

“You’ll be doing worshipping, ma’am,” she said, whipping Hermione around and untying the strings to start over. “You just won’t be at the Good Lord’s house. Y’all ladies will be gathering at the Turners' today reading scripture and such. They're just upriver. The menfolk, well, they say they’ll be listening to Presbyter Adamson, but I’m sure they’ll be dragging him into Master Turner’s study to drink and smoke. Even taking bets on whether Queen Charlotte will be birthing a boy or girl. Have you heard she’s in the family way again? Number six, this one.”

“Um…” Hermione winced as Charlotte cinched her waist. “Yes. Yes, I did know. She’s having a girl. I'm sure Her Highness is in labor as we speak.”

“You sound so sure.” The young woman had a smile in her voice. “You know, I hear that the King adores his little Princess Charlotte. You don’t hear about royals and gentry loving on their baby girls all that much.”

“Even commoners may not express care for them.”

Charlotte guided her to the vanity, skilled fingers delving into her curls. “Her Grace has another dress lined up for you. Since you’ll be in the midst of mostly ladies today, you'll be wearing a bonnet.”

Hermione frowned at her reflection. “I don’t want to do scripture and gossip with the locals. Can’t you tell everyone I’m sick?”

The young woman tugged at Hermione’s hair, almost painfully. After exhaling a slow breath, she replied, “The Lord has blessed you opportunity to worship inside a church and home. You also get to read His word, Ma’am. There are so many who can’t say the same.”

Not for the first time, Charlotte made her feel like a spoiled, pampered brat.

"I see," Hermione said, her tone hollow.

The young girl removed her hand's from Hermione's head and bowed. "Forgive me, ma'am. S-Sometimes things just come out of my mouth. I'm so sorry. Mama says I need to be better about controlling my face and tongue, and she's right."

"It's quite all right, Charlotte. I'm not upset. So long it's just us, you are welcome and encouraged to speak freely to me. And you are right," Hermione told her. "Everything you said is correct."

Being a white, educated governess of a prosperous, protective Lord, she wasn’t experiencing the fullness of how retched colonial history truly was. She was given a Bible in Hispaniola as a part of Willie’s education and thought nothing of it until now.

Hermione’s faith in a Great Being was complicated. She was a witch enrichingly entwined in paganistic and polytheistic ideology but was also her mother’s daughter. Sometimes she felt it was all real—Jesus and God, gods, and goddess, regardless of faith, sect, and creed—or none of it was.

Still, she had forgotten how precious the Holy Bible had been to people once upon a time and how the Reformation lit a fire under the notion of mass-printing scripture, so the literate commoner could clasp the Good Book in their own hands and read from it. They no longer had to depend on a Church leader to tell the mass the goings-on in Genesis and Revelations. The congregation could read and interpret the verses for themselves.

For better...or for worse.

And then there were those like Charlotte who couldn’t read at all. It was against the law for her to do so.

There wasn’t a church yet built for her and her family to gather where they could worship.

Gently, Hermione laid her hand above one of Charlotte’s, squeezing it. She turned around in her seat and looked up at her. “Can I ask you something, Charlotte?”

“Of course, ma’am,” she said, brow furrowing at their joined hands.

“Who’s your favorite character from the Bible?”

“They’re not characters, ma’am. They were real like you and me.”

“Fair enough. Who do you like hearing about the most?”

“Jesus,” she curtly responded.

Hermione raised a brow, calling her bluff. “You can talk to me, Charlotte. What you tell me will never leave this room.”

The girl bit her bottom lip and shrugged a shoulder. “Moses, maybe.”

“I imagine so. Who else?”

“I like…I like to hear about the women. I like Mary and Esther."

"Esther is my favorite, too," Hermione replied.

Encouraged, Charlotte continued. "I wish I could be brave like Esther and pure like the Holy Virgin.” She lowered her eyes in shame. “But I’m not. There’s no room for bravery in Virginia, and my purity was stolen from me a long time ago.”

The girl’s hands were warm, strong, and calloused. Hermione’s brushed the pads of her thumbs over them, smiling wobbly to hide the sour, vengeful sickness in her gut at hearing Charlotte had been raped. The desire to know who’d done that to her nearly put Hermione off-track, and she had to shove away the urge to berate the young woman with questions.

Who was he?

Is he still around?

Do you want me to make him go away forever?

“If there’s not room, then it’s up to us girls to make it,” Hermione said softly. “I’d like to teach you letters in secret, Charlotte, so you can read about the women for yourself. Is that something you would like to do? If it's not, then we won't, and we'll never speak of it again”

Charlotte’s mouth dropped open and then after a moment, something flickered in her wide, surprised eyes. Pressing her lips into a determined line, she lifted her chin and straightened her spine.

“I’d like that, ma’am. I'd like that very much.”

Master Turner’s drawing room was uncomfortably warm and reeked of wig powder, cheap perfume, soiled clouts, and yeast infection. Fire roaring in the hearth with the additional forty ladies on sofas and chairs, Hermione was grateful for the fan Minnie let her borrow. She could feel dampness starting to bud underneath her ribboned straw hat and daintily swiped at her neck with a kerchief.

“You wouldn’t know it was snowing outside,” she muttered to Minnie beside her.

“Too right,” she replied behind her own fan. “Feels like June in here. We’ll all get the summer flux, just wait and see.”

“I hope not,” Hermione groaned. Not that she’d catch anything Muggle related, but a house filled with illness would be awful, and it’d fall on the well and able-bodied to tend to the sick.

A few rows behind them, an ancient woman released a guttural, phlegm-ridden cough into a damply spotted handkerchief.

Minnie cracked a grimace and then lowered her fan to accept the open Bible from her neighbor. She stood up and read aloud the next doom and gloom verse from Revelations. Following her recitation, she elaborated on her feelings about the scripture. When she finished, she handed the weighty book off to Hermione and then sat down.

Pursing her lips, Hermione spoke in a delicately feminine voice. “‘But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.’”

A deprecating smile graced Hermione’s quivering lips, and she scanned dewily eyed at the ladies and children around her. “This is one of my favorite verses. It gives me such…such hope that those who’ve done wrong will finally get theirs. There should be no tolerance to any and all who so unapologetically participate in such illicit heathenry.”

Demurely and full of self-righteous hypocrisy, she daintily retook her seat and passed along the Bible to Dottie excitedly performed for all the church ladies her reading skills and piously juvenile outlook on life.

If I were there, I’d chastise you something fierce, her mother’s voice clipped.

Ah, there you are Mum. I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me.

Behind her fan, Minnie whispered saucily into her ear. “Sexually immoral, huh? Did you sleep in your own bed last night, Mrs. Christakos?”

“Oh, you.” Hermione playfully swatted Minnie’s arm with her fan.

“Did you even sleep?”

“Shush.”

“How is my brother-in-law? I’ve wondered. He can be ever so reserved when it comes to women.”

Hermione bristled and cast the duchess a side glance.

Did she know about John?

The woman can unlock a door with a hairpin. Of course, she knows!

“Now’s not the time."

“That good, I take it. Anyway, I’ve been thinking,” the woman began idly and got shushed by surrounding women before she could finish. It was time for prayer and song.

“Later,” mouthed Hermione, standing to sing in the last hymnal.

Before the last song and concluding prayer, Mrs. Turner stood up and read from a scrap of parchment. “Well, let’s have a look at the list Presbyter Adamson gave us, shall we?” she said, her spectacles low on her nose. “Ah, it looks like the Putnams lost their chickens to a stray, rabid dog. If anyone can spare a couple of chicks and a servant to build a sturdy coop for them, that would be splendid.”

Louisa Dunsany flicked her hand up in the air.

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Turner beamed and returned to the list. “Next, we have the Dickens. They lost their eighteenth month year old and three old to the croup earlier this week—”

“Oh, my God,” Hermione whispered, horrified and feeling quite ill. A woman a few seats down held her toddler and clutched him close to her bosom, kissing his forehead and then his plump, rosy cheeks. Several of the other women holding their young ones did the same.

"Dottie, come here," whispered Minnie.

The little girl hopped over and climbed onto her mum's lap for a cuddle and kiss. 

“—they are in need of prayer, meals, and kindly neighbors. Is there anyone who would be able to spare an evening to join Presbyter Adamson in dropping off food, blankets, and clothes to them?”

Several women raised their hands, Minnie included. Still surprised at this charitable turn the meeting took, Hermione delayed in raising her hand. The next one, Hermione was more prepared.

“Once again, the Goldmans are on the list,” Mrs. Turner said, removing her glasses with a sigh. “As we know, Mrs. Goldman and her middle daughter died several months ago from fever. Mr. Goldman’s eldest daughter left for Pennsylvania in August to marry, and recall his youngest who has…difficulties. Meals, trousers, and blankets should suffice. If anyone could spare anything, that would be wonderful.”

Much to Hermione’s shock, no one raised their hand except for her. She frowned quizzically at everyone who stared back at her in alarm.

“They’re Jews, Hermione. Put your hand down,” Minnie whispered desperately to her.

Hermione rose her hand higher. Lifting her chin defiantly and proud, she looked back to the front at Mrs. Turner who gifted her a warm, pleased smile of relief.     

Following prayer, refreshments of blessed bohea and molasses sponge were served. Cooing into her cuppa in a lonely corner of the drawing room, Hermione reverently murmured at the steaming rim, “Oh, my darling, these rotten Patriots will do you so dirty.”

“As I was about to say,” Minnie started, approaching from stage right and her tone far from playful as it had been during scripture, as she coquettishly stirred her spoon. “You ought to marry John.”

Taking a bite of cake, Hermione saluted Her Grace with a teacup. “It’s true we participate in premarital debauchery, but neither one of us our interested in being espoused again so soon. Besides, I’m still in mourning.” Looking down at her borrowed, silky chocolate-hued top petticoat and cream-colored bodice. “I should wear black, shouldn’t I? Also, I’m not Anglican. Apparently, that matters—”

“It doesn’t—”

“I’m certain if half these women knew my origins were a hair’s width from Catholicism, they’d oust me from town. The other half—God bless their misguided souls—would insist on my conversion.”

The duchess lifted her chin, her blue eyes fierce and calculated. “People won’t ask those kinds of questions depending on how you conduct yourself. They’ll assume you accepted your husband’s faith.”

Hermione’s brow arched. “Are you speaking from experience, Your Grace?”

The somewhat smaller woman stepped closer, her voice dropping low. “I know you and John are being careless. You could already be with child—”

“It’s really none of your business—”

“Oh, but it is, Hermione.” Minnie calmly sipped from her teacup before continuing. “You are not in a place where you can hide a pregnancy. Lady Dunsany may be dim, but she’s a horse-breeder and can smell a foal baking before even the mare knows it. She’ll take it as a deep betrayal. She likes you well enough, but you are a little more than a brilliant commoner who teaches her grandson. With John in Boston, the control of the estate will be in her hands. She’ll force you to leave Mount Josiah and paint you a harlot. Hal and I will privately arrange something for you if it does in fact come to that, but—”

“How utterly kind of you,” she snapped.

Minnie placed herself in Hermione’s line of sight. “Marrying John will be a precaution. A safety net for the both of you. If you are not with child, he returns from Boston, and you can both seek annulment.” Belated, she added with a tight and dry tone. “Or divorce.”

“What if I prefer one of us beheaded?”

Exhaling like the tired mother and wife she was, Minnie glared at her. “I’m certain you are purposefully being obstinate but know the gravity of the situation.”

“Do I?” Hermione challenged.

“Please don’t ruin John’s life, Hermione. If you care for him at all—”

“I do—”

“Then do this—”

“I can’t.” Hermione shook her head, her face heating while an anxious sort of annoyance coursed through her veins. “We don’t have to do anything. You and your husband don't need to do anything. If I’m pregnant, I’ll quietly disappear—”

Minnie grabbed Hermione’s wrist and painfully squeezed. “You will do no such thing, do I make myself clear? You’re a grown woman, and I don’t take you for a coward. Everyday, more men walk away from their fatherly and husband duties. You’ve got in your hands a good man of status who will love this child and take care of it and you—”

“I want to go home,” Hermione interjected, tears burning her eyes, and she yanked her arm free. “The love of my life is gone, and I want to go home to my family. I’ve been saving for passage all this time to get back to Greece. I’ll be just about there once the harbors open back up in the spring.”

Minnie seemed to consider her plan and then she shook her head. “I understand how much you must miss your family, especially with your husband’s death. But you know that John nor Hal is going to laze about and allow you to leave if there is a Grey heir inside you. And say you were able to get to Greece—which you should know John and Hal would track you down—won’t your family dislike you having a child and not a husband?”

Hermione imagined Helena Granger would be miffed for all of 1.5 seconds and then forget why the moment she saw and held her first grandbaby.

And so long Helena Granger wasn’t upset, Daniel Granger wasn’t upset.

“My family realizes, there are worse things in the world than a brand-new life coming into it, regardless of legitimacy.”

The woman’s brows arched towards her hairline. “How intriguing. I can’t say many would feel the same, John being among them.”

Hermione massaged her temple. “In the off-chance I remarry, it’s because of love. John doesn’t love me and doesn’t want to marry me. He wants to fuck me but doesn’t want to grow old with me, nor do I believe he’ll stay faithful to me. I want that, and I deserve all those things. I will accept nothing less just because society says I should.”

“I think in his own way, he does love you, Hermione. If you know him like I think you do…” Brown eyes met blue, and Hermione felt a blotchy heat creep up her neck. “Then you must understand that romance is complicated for him. Perhaps in time, John will love you the way you want.”

“Ah, yes. That’s exactly what every little girl dreams of. A forced husband who might love her one day. Tell me, Your Grace, is this something you wish for your own daughter?”

Minnie pursed her lips into a thin, pink line. "You know, I didn't love Hal right away in the traditional sense when we married, nor did he love me. We eventually did grew fond of one another outside of the marital bed, and the seed of love was planted when we had our Benjamin. My past is not something I want Dottie to repeat. But you are not my daughter, Hermione. I’d like to think of us as friends if you’d allow it, and I don’t think you and I are all that different. I think you will love John…if you don’t already. And he’ll love you. He and Willie can be your family. For the sake of both your reputations, get the easy part out of the way and marry.”

“No.”

The woman stamped her foot in frustration and then forced herself to calm down. She held up her hands, as if in cautious surrender. “You ought to at least pass on helping the Goldmans. People are already talking about you and have been since last Sunday at church. You’ll make enemies, Hermione. It won’t help that he’s widowed, and so are you. People will talk, and going to his home unbiased, educated, and happy to help…he’ll most likely propose marriage to you.”

“You know what,” Hermione seethed, “instead of telling people what they should and shouldn’t do, why don’t you use your status and nobility for good? These women admire you, and you have the power to sway their thinking. Whatever happens between me and John, we will do our best to keep it our own business, so redirect your focus. Help me help the Goldmans. I don't really think you have anything against Jews, and you were only looking out for me, but I want to help them. I want to help those who are refused help—”

“Marry John, and you would have that influence, too,” Minnie alleged “I wouldn’t have to warn you not to help certain people. All you have to say is that you’re a Lady, and it’s your Christian duty to serve all God’s children. Do you have any idea the amount of people I’ve been able to help because of that. I would’ve long ago been cast out or worse as a commoner.”

“Then why not raise your hand when Mrs. Turner was asking for helping the Goldmans?”

“Because I already put my lot in with the Dickens this week. I can’t serve or save everyone. I have my own time limits and responsibilities. If Mrs. Turner brought them up before the Dickens family, then I might have. You don’t have the power to get away with it. You can’t twist it in such a way for it to seem like a good thing to do. You, a common widow, jumped at the opportunity to serve Mr. Goldman who has children and no wife—”

“It’s not going to be like that—”

 “—and is the third richest man in Lynchburg.”

Hermione eyes narrowing shrewdly. “Then why does he need help?”

“Mr. Goldman is against owning slaves. He lives modestly but is helpless in the domestic arts. Word has it that he can’t cook, clean, wash, or mend worth a damn. After his daughter left for Pennsylvania, he did put an add out for paid help, but not even the free blacks will help since he’s—”

“A Jew,” Hermione finished icily. “And I don’t care and to be frank, neither would Jesus. He was a Jew, wasn’t He? Jesus Himself was a poor carpenter, and He served all. Even when His disciples questioned and opposed His catering to the sinners, unclean, and unbelievers. Being a real Christian isn’t about how convenient it is to serve other Christians. I’m helping the Goldmans, and I’m not going to marry into a title just to get away with it.”

Minnie gaze cooled considerably. “I would admire you clinging to your ideals if you weren’t so stubbornly careless with them, Hermione. Every public move you make reflects on my family and what is probably more important to you, Willie. Aside from serving the Goldmans, do you have any idea the impact it will have on Willie if you are pregnant, and John’s in Boston unable to tell him his part in it? He won’t want to hear it from Hal or me and will hate you, Hermione. He still mourns for his mother and will focus all his young, unbridled indignation on you. If you thought him a handful when you first became his governess, it will be much worse. Through his grandmother, he will terminate your employment and can arrange that you not see a single coin when you’re ousted from Mount Josiah—”

“Is everything quite all right? You two are looking heated,” chimed the Duke of Pardloe. He and Louisa Dunsany popped up beside them. The duke’s features were overly tight, though his sky blue eyes twinkling in anticipation. John and Willie were behind them, the former nakedly peeved at something or other, and the latter evidently brimming with hostility. His slanted gaze scorched her with a most hateful glare, an expression she hadn't been on the receiving end since her second week as his governess when rumors were going around about John and her.

"What's the matter, William?" she asked, cautiously reaching her hand up towards him.

"I hate you!" he growled, recoiling despite the three feet distance between them and then charged through the crowd of ladies, disappearing.

"Oh," Hermione said softly, feeling the sting of his claim deep in her chest. He meant that one. Or he thought he did. It wasn't just to get a rise out of her. She looked at the people surrounding her for an explanation.

“Fine, darling, we’re just fine,” Minnie assured her husband, frowning worriedly at where her nephew had stood.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked John, who lowered his focus from her.

“I’m sorry, Madam,” he whispered, raising to meet to her gaze. “Forgive me.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Louisa said, patting his shoulder. “This is wonderful news, and it's a fine match, indeed, given the circumstances of how you're both widowed. Willie will come around, I'm sure of it. He adores Hermione. Just give him time.”

“What’s…what’s wonderful news?” Hermione asked, scared shitless of the answer.

“Hal?” Minnie questioned.

“The first announcement must be made if we are to do this in an immediate manner," Padloe said.

He erected his spine and called out to the crowd.

“May I have all your attention please? Yes, thank you,” he airily addressed the people in the room. “Hello, I am the Duke of Pardloe. It is an honor to be spending the sabbath with His Majesties finest subjects in the Virginian colony this afternoon. I fear of not having the pleasure of meeting everyone here today and wish to rectify this on Wednesday evening at Mount Josiah where I we will be celebrating the engagement of my younger brother Lord John, Lieutenant Colonel of His Majesty’s Army. He is set to wed Madam Hermione Christakos at precisely noon—”

“I beg your par—”

Hermione hiss was cut of by Minnie digging her nails into her arm.

“—this Thursday on the tenth of November.”

 To be continued...

Chapter Text

Williamsburg, Virginia

November 1768

According to colonial Virginian law pertaining to marriage, there must be three announcements—verbal or written—to the community’s church congregation before a wedding ceremony takes place between an engaged couple. This gave folks time to oppose the union, and the Duke of Pardloe had very little of it to get the word out of his younger brother’s impending nuptials.

“You’re feeling stressed?” was what Minnie screeched, slamming her teacup down on the table. “Louisa and I are putting six months of planning into four days. We are having a wedding here on Thursday, and we—”

“No!” The tea in Hermione’s cup rippled from her shaking hands, and for the last hour, she’d been on the brink of throwing something large and heavy at someone. Anyone.

It was mid-afternoon, and the three of them were in John’s study. Louisa Dunsany had gone to Lynchburg immediately departing from the Turners to see about Hermione’s fabrics she ordered from Richmond the week prior and wouldn’t be returning until the next day.

“Hermione.” For the umpteenth time since the Turners, John attempted to touch her hand or arm.

For the umpteenth time, she rebuffed him.

Not because this was his fault. It wasn’t.

She was upset with him because he wasn’t fighting the current hard enough. He was cowing to his brother’s demands, and it had all to do with him losing a game of fucking chess last week.

“I had no idea that was what he was going to ask of me,” he said on the carriage ride back to Mount Josiah. “But you must understand, Hermione. Michael Lynch was talking to Adamson about marrying you. He was making plans about visiting the governor in order to obtain a marriage license…”

“I will not marry on a plantation,” she said, her knuckles turning white. I will not marry at all, she mentally added.

“You are housed, bathed, and fed here,” Hal stated, short-tempered. “You even fornicate. I see no reason why it should matter since you apparently do everything else on this land.”

Hermione’s chin trembled and felt her courage failing her. She wanted nothing more than to leap from the table and run out of the house, back to the backwater region of North Carolina where she could hide. Return to Fraser’s Ridge and live as an unkind hermit until further notice. If anyone should try to introduce themselves, she’d bark and froth at the mouth.

With any hope, she wouldn’t get lost on the way there.

Ian was coming, according to Claire, and the option to leave with him was available to her. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be here until February.

“We’ll reception here after the ceremony,” John assured Hal and Minnie. “Hermione, darling, would you prefer the chapel to exchange our vows?”

“No.”

“What about the governor’s estate?” Hal proposed. “It’ll require a day’s travel, and the wedding party will be small. But not an impossible situation and not entirely inconvenient. We can get a formal marriage license whilst there.”

“It’s a planation,” remarked Minnie, dismissing it with a wave of hand.

Hal exhaled, his patience visibly thinning. “Mount Josiah or the chapel. Pick one, Hermione. If you don’t in the next five seconds, John will choose, and we will move on to the menu items and wine list. There’s no time to dawdle.”

Pardloe leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers over his chest. His jaw was set and gaze stony.

Hermione said nothing, staring right back at him. In no way would she let any of these people think she had a preference, and therefore, mistakenly think she was relenting. Neither location was superior, but John could make the decision. Aside from the color of her wedding dress, every other choice had been ripped from her. What was one more?

“The chapel,” affirmed John after the grandfather clock in the corner yielded six ticks.

“Splendid,” Hal said, his tone dry. “If that’s the case, we’ll allow Adamson to give the third announcement right before the ceremony.”

Closing her eyes, Hermione stood up from the sofa and set down her teacup. John and Hal scrambled to their feet.

“I need some air,” she said.

“I’ll go with you.” John made a move towards her.

“I haven’t got to have a single second to my own thoughts since—”

“Neither have I, Hermione,” he countered, equally vexed. “And I think we should talk by ourselves.”

He was right, and she kind of wanted to, but she was unravelling at the ends. Her emotional turmoil churned and swelled. Her magic was becoming pressurized, and she was on the brink of accidental combustion. If she hung about any longer, it was completely plausible all glass and porcelain within the room would shatter. The wooden furniture might splinter. The foundation of the house may even crack.

Forget a cactus. A Whomping Willow may take root in the office and sprout monstrously outwards, pummeling everything and everyone within the immediate vicinity.

“Then go.” She gestured nonsensically towards the window “Be by yourself. I need to be alone for a little while. Don’t follow me.”

“You’re not going to run away, are you?” Hal called after her.

Hermione didn’t answer.

Donning her breeks, riding frock, boots, and grabbing a couple of apples from the kitchen, she dashed to the stables where she bridled Barbie. Once mounted, she stole away to the forest, the cold and sprinkling wind hitting her cheeks.

The horse sped at a break-neck pace, sensing her restlessness and her need for distance. Hermione half-wished she could magic the horse a pair of wings, and the two of them could fly far away from Virginia.

And if she possessed her wand and wasn’t too bloody afraid of heights exceeding thirty feet from the ground, she’d do it.

“Whoa, there,” she crooned to Barbie. They had reached a clearing, so she dismounted and walked the horse a good distance from it. Tying her to a tree, she fed the mare an apple and spoiled her with a good petting and a loving lecture about keeping calm and staying put.

Hermione returned to clearing and stood in the middle, looked around to be sure she was alone, and then exhaled deeply from within her core. A magic so volatile and potent that she tasted the colors silver and hot pink erupted from her arms.

A whirlwind of hues shot into the wet ground and gushed up towards the treetops. Tattered leaves and splintered twigs showered around her.  She crouched, squeezing her eyes shut and concentrated her outpour to be a surging spout as opposed to a broken dam.

Seconds turned into minutes and minutes into what felt like an hour or maybe two. When she had nothing more than fizzy drops dribbling from her pinkies, she metaphorically shut off the faucet. She was drained, achy, and lethargic.

Opening her eyes, she scanned her surroundings.

Amidst her own chaos, the surrounding oaks had curved and bowed. The long and tangled trunks had bent and covered the clearing, creating a tight and hollowed cloche of tree limbs and trunks.

The space beneath the interwoven roof was not large, nor was it made from or for elegance. Hermione designed a place where she could be alone for a little while if she needed to be. In the coming months, she would need to be away from Mount Josiah for her own and others’ safety. Her magic would stir sporadically and not always be triggered by her emotions.

But by her hormones.

She cupped her lower abdomen. The sturdy woolen material of her riding frock was damp. Splintery shards of hickory were embedded into the fabric, and she could feel them poking into the leather palms of her riding gloves.

“I know you’re in there,” she confessed aloud, irritated. “I didn’t want you in there, but now that you are, I suppose I won’t do anything about it because I do plan on looking my mother in the eye again. I’ll let you stay and ruin my life further. But I’m telling you now, this place you’re going to be born into isn’t forever. We don’t belong here. We’ll leave someday and somehow go to the future. We just have to wait. Don’t mistake this supposed lollygagging for complacency. It’s all temporary and relative. Just know everything I’m doing is to keep us safe, so we can go to our real home.”

Hermione’s mare was thankfully where she left her and seemingly unperturbed from the nearby deforestation aside from a few stray leaves in her mane and tail. They trotted back to Mount Josiah at an unhurried pace.

In the kitchen of Mount Josiah, she asked Caroline to help her assemble a basket for the Goldman’s. With the remaining daylight, she wanted to hurry and get her service assignment done before her week was taken over by the children, the Pardloes, Lady Dunsany, and the wretched wedding.

“Uh uh.” Caroline tsked, wagging a finger at Hermione like a scolding mother would to a naughty child, though Hermione suspected they were close to the same age.  “You’re not going by yourself. Goldman is only about three miles, but the sun’s going down. You should take His Grace’s eldest with you to be safe. I’ll also send along Abe with you. He has to pick up some supplies from the Reids along the way, and he can help out poor Mr. Goldman with his leaky roof. He’s helpless without his woman, but he’s not one for manual labor, either.

“I’d suggest taking your betrothed with you, but His Lordship and His Grace have been called away to Master Bobwhite’s. I suspect the man would like an explanation on what’s going on. It wasn’t two days ago you told him you were still in mourning.”

“Right,” Hermione said, wincing. “Hopefully, he’s not terribly put out.”

“He’ll be fine. The nursemaid for Edmund is his late wife’s half-sister. She’s a widow, too. Bilious fever took her man back in May. Anyway, she’s got a hankering for our good Master Bobwhite. Lord, does he make her laugh, and he’s too dense to figure out she’s in love with him. He will though. By Christmas, I suspect they’ll be engaged.”

Hermione placed jam and honey jars into a basket. “He deserves a good wife. He seems like a good man and father.”

“He’s one of the few decent ones out there, for sure. Now go fetch young Master Adam. I’ll finish up packing. You might want to see if he and any of the other boys have outgrown some of their trousers and vests. Goldman’s boys are growing fast and could use some spare clothes, especially for winter.”

An hour later, in a buggy coached by Abe and Adam, Hermione sat in the cart along with Patsy who was eager to come and help, claiming she had excellent sewing skills. The girl’s needlework was adequate, but Hermione suspected Patsy wanted to come because of Adam. The young lady had already developed a crush on the lad in the short time she had spent with him.

The road wasn’t paved and every bump the wheels met, hers and Patsy’s shoulders or knees would crack together. They’d drop their sewing and scramble to ensure none of the glass jars would crack and the lanterns wouldn’t go out or cause a fire.

“Adam, sweetheart?” Hermione said inquiring, righting the hood of her cloak.

“Yes, Auntie?” He looked over his shoulder at her.

Hermione winced, unsure if the new title was genuine or sarcastically facetious. “I know Willie well, but you’ve known him longer. How long do you think it will be before he talks to me willingly again?”

His mouth scrunched pensively, and then he shrugged one shoulder. “He’ll hold out as long as he can. He’s so stubborn, my cousin. It won’t help that Uncle John will be going to Boston almost right after the wedding. And I understand you’ll still be instructing us and with Uncle John gone, the estate will be run by you. I’m sure Lady Dunsany will still help you in managing affairs should you need it, but when Willie does talk to you, which could be sooner than you think, he’ll likely try to control the estate through you and not for the better. Think ‘army of puppies’ times a thousand. He’ll be testing your limits.”

“It will be like starting all over with him.” Hermione exhaled unhappily.

“Just give him time, Auntie,” encouraged Adam, smiling at her over his shoulder.

“Whoa, there,” Abe said, slowing the horses and bringing the cart to a stop. “Something we can help you with, sirs?”

Adam turned to face the road, his hand going to his dueling pistol holstered at his hip. Hermione rose to see Michael Lynch and three unfamiliar men standing in the middle of the path about fifteen feet away from them. Off to the side of the road was a four-horse drawn carriage.

“Oh, hello, Michael, it’s good to see you,” she greeted, waving at him. “Are you all right? Have you cracked a wheel?”

“It’s always wonderful to see you, too.” His words were genuine, but there was no hiding his disapproving frown at her masculine attire. He lowered his chin at one of the men with him and said, “I think we should talk, Hermione.”

The next morning…

Despite the rather traumatic circumstances, exhaustion must’ve overtaken her, for Hermione found herself jerking awake when the carriage jostled due to a particularly concaved spot of road. Warm rays of sunlight through the window informed her it was morning and an ironically pretty one at that.

Her eyes snapped to Patsy who was asleep and curled up tightly beside her on the bench of the cabin. Aside from her bound wrists tucked underneath her slight chin, she looked uncomfortable but otherwise unharmed. Adam sat across from them. His red-rimmed blue eyes were not only alert but crammed of malevolence. Brimming underneath his gag and tightened cords, he radiated animosity

“It will be all right. I promise you,” she lied, voice hoarse and throat tender from all her evening and late-night screaming for help. Her bladder howled at her for relief and if the circumstances weren’t so dire, she’d be hungry.

The recent and horribly vivid memory of Abe being shot twice in the chest resurfaced, and Hermione vowed to avenge his death. All responsible for his death would pay. Should Adam want to help—and she was inclined to think he would—she’d allow him as her sidekick.

Adam shook his head and started yelling, suppressed and pathetic as it was. His expression was not unlike his mother’s when she was trying to lecture Hermione about the importance of marrying. Hermione held the distinct impression he was instructing her to do the exact opposite.

“Hmm hmmmphmm,” he repeated for the third time, banging his bound feet on the floor of the carriage for emphasis.

She shook her head, wishing she could reach out to him and assure him everything would be fine.

Despite Hermione begging and Patsy’s crying, Adam refused to hold his tongue after they had been stuffed into the carriage. He called their captors every profane title he could think of. Every indecorous word known to man and then manufactured some impressive one for good measure.

On top of that, he swore on the graves of all the dead relatives he could think of and every English monarch back to Athelstan of Wessex that he and his father—Lord Melton who is also the Duke of Pardloe—would personally imprison and or kill all responsible for their abduction.

It was when Adam started on their captors’ mothers, the carriage came to a halt. Soon after, the cabin door flew open, and one of Michael’s hideous, inbred cousins shoved a filthy and wadded kerchief in his mouth. Another equally soiled one was used to tie around his head to keep the gag from dislodging.

Uneasiness settled heavily and acidic in Hermione’s gut like a coiled knot of rusted iron. Given what all occurred within the last twelve hours, Hermione believed Patsy was on borrowed time. Sooner rather than later, that girl would have a seizure.

And if she did before they reached their destination, and Hermione was still bound…

For a minute, she forced herself to meditate and focus on the fizzling traces of magic in her veins. She was still in restorative mode from yesterday afternoon’s expenditure, and she needed more than what she had to gnaw at the thick cords rubbing her wrists and ankles raw.

The carriage came to a halt, and the door flew open, and Hermione smacked Michael Lynch with her best blistering glare. The man had the fucking audacity to look like a haloed arch angel delivering her from despair. His expression wasn’t even fierce but one of concern and even apologetic embarrassment.

“I am really sorry it had to be this way, Hermione,” he said, wincing. He reached to touch her face, and she went to chomp at his dirty finger. He retracted his advance and sighed morosely, disheartened at her rejection.

“I said it earlier, and I’ll say it again.” Hermione made sure she sounded like a stone-cold, vengeful bitch. “Patsy is ill. Not with a passing ague or a rumbly belly. She’s always ill and can succumb to uncontrollable fits. If she has one, and I am unable to spare her injury, you will not have my cooperation any longer. If anyone lays a hand on Adam out of anger during this debacle—and I don’t care if he insults your mother or your dog—you will not have my cooperation any longer. Do I make myself clear, Michael?”

The man smiled dewily at her like the lunatic he was, removing his battered, continental hat and placing it over his chest. “You’re going to make a fine wife, a protective mother to our babies, and a headstrong mistress of my estate. I couldn’t have chosen better.”

Behind her, Adam let out a guttural squawk at his words. He grunted and flexed every muscle in his scrawny teenage body as if trying to achieve the painful and fantastical transition of morphing into the Incredible Hulk.

“I know you care for your governess, and I find it honorable. I promise you I will take care of her,” Michael solemnly vowed to Adam.

“I don’t want you talking to him. You and your cousins have already done enough to incriminate yourselves. He wasn’t joking when he said his parents weren’t merciful when it came to their children’s welfare.” Hermione attempted to see over Michael’s massively muscled shoulder, wanting to vomit at the large, showy estate. “Are we at Governor Buckley’s?”

Michael nodded eagerly, remarkably unconcerned about the inevitably of dismemberment by Minnie’s bare hands. He put on his hat and peered behind him. “My cousin Lawrence rode ahead in announcing our arrival. The Lynch family is on exceptional terms with Buckley even though he’s only been here a short while. I’m sure they are preparing rooms and expect us to honeymoon here for the night before I take you back with me to Georgia. We don’t want to linger too long. I reckon some folks won’t be too pleased with our elopement.”

Hermione refused to worry about being peeled away from Virginia and dragged two colonies south. Odds were, if it got that far—which they sure as hell wouldn’t—she could probably play Michael the fool and lure him to Fraser’s Ridge. There, she would carve out chunks of his flesh with Claire’s knitting needles and feed them to White Sow.

“Won’t that relationship be soured once he finds out you kidnapped a duke’s son and Mount Vernon’s little darling?”

She was aware of her own value in this time, and it was none. Not a single person in the governor’s estate or Williamsburg for that matter would give a flying poo if Michael tossed her into Buckley’s office, proclaimed they were in love, and must marry immediately.

Adam scooped her out of the carriage like she was a sack of feathers and began unlacing her bindings around her enflamed wrists. “Now, Hermione, don’t you be telling him or anybody such things. You promised me your obedience. Running your mouth like that, I’ll be forced to make an ugly decision or two regarding your two students here, not to mention the thrashing I’ll give you once we’re married. You want a nice wedding night, then I fully expect you to keep these children in line and play the part of besotted fiancé. After a couple of days, Allen here,” he tipped his head to the coach holding the reigns, “will take them back to Mount Josiah with a letter explaining your absence and your desire to marry me.”

Hermione frowned at Michael’s cousin. He’d been the one to kill Abe. Not that it mattered, but he wasn’t as physically fortunate as Michael. Truthfully, Allen Lynch was just as ugly inside as he was outside. He gave her a jack o’ lantern grin, proudly displaying his blackened gums. Though he apparently came from an upstanding and well-to-do family, his clothes were stained, torn, and ragged. Not to mention, he reeked of tobacco, fermented shit, and mental instability.

“You really had no time to figure anything better out, did you, Michael?” Hermione clipped. “Yes, we’ll marry, but then what? There’s not a happily ever after. You’ll be going to prison and might even hang. We make it to Georgia, you’ll be safe from the charges that’ll come with kidnapping a Virginian citizen, maybe. You won’t be spared by filching Pardloe’s son.”

“Well, I got family in Germany,” he said, brow furrowed in thought. “If things get too dicey on our way south, we’ll hold out until spring and fetch a ship directly to Hamburg. I never pictured myself living anywhere else, but I’m always up for a challenge and an adventure. A challenging adventure is even better.”

He could not possibly be so stupid.

“And if worse comes to worse,” Michael linked his long, muscled arm through hers and marched her up the perfectly landscaped driveway of Buckley’s estate. “We’ll refuge with the Muskogee. They’re my mother’s people. It’s rough living when you’re not used to it, but I can tell you’re no pampered princess, and that you’re plenty kind to the Indians. I saw you in Lynchburg talking to that Cherokee woman like you two were best of friends. You were kind, polite, and respectful. I like that in a woman.”

“Do you really?” she said, revolted at the way he made it sound like they were Bonnie and Clyde. Two romantic lovers on the run from the law.

“All I’d ask is for you to be a bit more obliging to your husband, but that will come with time, I’m sure. You were married before. You know how it works.”

He patted her hand lovingly when they reached the open double doors of the estate. Receiving them was a polished and wigged house-slave about her height and build. He was probably not much older than Adam.

“Welcome.” The boy curtseyed, his gaze fixed on the floor and then began guiding them through the entryway. “We received word from Master Lawrence Lynch of your arrival an hour ago. I’m sure Master Lynch is pleased to hear that he has been breakfasted and is currently resting in one of the guest bedrooms, as we speak. Master Governor Buckley is both joyous and surprised of your visit and congratulates you on your engagement. He wasn’t expecting a couple coming to him so late in the year. Worry not. He won’t make assumptions, nor will anyone at this estate. Furthermore, the governor is overjoyed to receive the betrothed at precisely eleven o’ clock in his office. In the meantime, he asks Mr. Michael Lynch to recess in his designated guest bedroom. His bride will convalesce with Mrs. Buckley in her salon.”

The boy’s voice was highly pitched, oddly accented, and melodic. His narrow hips sashayed in their pantaloons as he led them through the house which was twice as big as Mount Josiah and smelled of hot coffee and fresh baked bread.

Hermione’s belly growled, and she frowned up at Michael. “The children. They need to eat and drink something. They went without a proper dinner with…all the travelling we did last night…sweetheart.”

Michael beamed at the endearment, and she tried not to bite his finger when he dragged the pad of his thumb over her jawline. “We’ve a couple of children, boy. They travelled with us from Lynchburg. They’re out in our carriage with my cousin watching over them. Talk to him, and he’ll tell you what they need. After the wedding, he’ll be taking them to an inn.”

The young butler curtseyed again, though not as deeply as before. “Once you’re situated, I will arrange with the cook and house slaves to bring them meals and tea. I’ll send word to the groomsmen to feed and water your horses, as well. If the children are in need of a room here, Master Lynch, I’m certain arrangements can be made.”

“Thank you kindly, boy, but that’s unnecessary. They’ll stay at an inn.”

“Yes, well, Mistress Buckley is tickled to be of assistance in readying the bride who wore her late cousin’s yellow dress this past Friday. I ask, Madam, to be prepared in answering when she asks if said garment was brought back with you.”

He made a show of spinning around to run his gaze from the scuffed, muddy tips of Hermione’s boots to the leather belt cinching the waist of her wrinkled breeks. Any higher, he’d get in trouble. Black men, enslaved or not, were not allowed to lock eyes with a white woman. He risked quite a bit just curling his lip at her attire.

“Despite clearly not having her late cousin’s dress, Mistress will likely thrust her charitable heart upon you and kindly offer one of her fabulous gowns she purchased before sailing here to Virginia. She summered in Bordeaux.” He tossed his head over his shoulder and sneered at the dirt at the knees of her breeks again like the smudges were contagious. “That is in France.”

Mistress Buckley was a shameless, unfiltered, full-figured nineteen-year-old with a sweet tooth and a love for fashion, sex, and Fanny Hill. Massive milky breasts threatened to pop out of her bodice as she reached over to the coffee table to cut a third slice of iced ginger cake.

Having been chamber-potted, scrubbed, and sewn into a borrowed dress by Mistress Buckley’s personal houseslaves who were a terrifying set of fast working, identical triplets--Madeleine, Marguerite, and Millicent--Hermione sat still in a cushioned chair being pampered by the trio. Two slaves worked their nimble fingers into her hair twenty minutes ago, and so far, not one of them had come up for air. The third had just finished plucking her eyebrows and was currently massaging perfumed creams into her face.

“You don’t think me unseemly, do you?” Vivienne Buckley asked, gesturing to the open and battered copy of Fanny Hill.

Hermione shook her head no, earning three identical glowers for moving.

“Oh, good,” she said, taking an indulgent bite of spiced apple cake, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her tongue darted out, slowly and quite purposefully laving at her lips as she eyed the low-cut bodice of Hermione’s borrowed dress. “That’s very good shade, indeed. Robin’s egg suites you, Hermione. You should wear that color always. Tea? Cake?”

“Yes, please, and thank you very much for the dress.”

One of the slaves abandoned Hermione’s hair to pour a cuppa and prepare a saucer of cake.

“Thank you, Madeleine,” she said quietly.

“That is Marguerite,” chided Vivienne.

“Sorry.” Hermione’s focus drifted to the clock. In seven minutes, she was to be married to Michael Lynch if she wanted no harm coming to Adam and Patsy.

Vivienne lazily smiled, brushing cake crumbs off her ample, jiggly bosom. “It’s all right. So I hear you were married before?”

“Yes. I’m widowed.”

She pouted, setting aside her empty plate.  “Has it been ages since you made love to someone? Do you need to be retaught on what to do?”

Scandalized, Hermione gaped at the young woman over the steaming rim of her teacup. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I remember my wedding night,” Vivienne murmured dreamily, like it was a long-ago event and not something that happened only a year prior. “It was so erotic.” 

Luxuriously, she draped her soft and fleshy self into the cushion of her sofa and hiked up the skirts of her petticoats to expose her stocking-clad legs. Liberally wetting two fingers with her tongue, Hermione watched in fascinated mortification when those two saliva-stricken digits disappeared under the ruffles of her dress.

Jaw dropping to the floor, Hermione averted her eyes and stared up at one slave—maybe Millicent— and then the two others. Their dark eyes were fixed on Hermione’s head, and their jaws set in determined concentration.

“U-um,” Hermione stuttered.

Maybe Madeleine bent over and whispered to Hermione, “She does this at least three times during the day. Lord knows how often at night with Master.”

What the fuck?

One of the other slaves slouched and added, “But only in front of us, Master Buckley, and pretty women of certain ages that she believes she can trust and maybe even seduce.”

“I guess you could feel flattered,” Maybe Marguerite pitched gravely.

Vivienne’s breathy moans became elevated and the movements of her wrist erratic.

“Oh, oh!” the young woman crooned. Licking her lips, she started chanting repeatedly, “Hermione, yes!”

“Oh, my God,” Hermione’s shoulders flying towards her already abused ears, and she clapped her hands over them. Her stomach shuddered in revulsion, and she felt her bites of cake climbing back up towards the back of her throat.

“Ah, yesyesyesyes, I love it when you lick me like that!”

The scene playing out before her was wrong on so many levels.

It was blatant sexual harassment bordering on assault.

“I think there’s something wrong.” Maybe Millicent brought one of her long, nimble fingers to her temple and tapped. “Here.”

Hermione leapt to her feet, having had enough of the slaves fussing over hair while Vivienne masturbated to sexual fantasies of a woman she just met. It was nearly eleven, and she had enough. Marriage could not come soon enough. She was more than ready to scribble on a marriage license and make Michael Lynch miserable for the rest of his short life.

Storming out of the drawing room through one of the double doors, the young butler from before sprung backwards with a girlish squeal. He quickly composed himself by correcting his wig and posture, and then curtseyed.

“Madam.” He curtseyed stiffly. “Allow me to take you to Master Buckley’s office. Your betrothed is already awaiting your arrival. We will get you to them at once.” He clapped his hands sharply a few times and led her up a spiral staircase to the east wing of the estate. “By the by, Madam, the robin’s egg was excellent choice. Mistress did well in picking it, no?”

He was a chatty one, wasn’t he? There was no ‘speak unless spoken to’ rule apparently.

“What is your name?” asked Hermione, curious. “Are you from Virginia?”

Aghast, the boy put a hand on his ruffled cravat and gaped at her lace-gloved hands. “Heavens no, Madam. The horror. I was born on the Queen Catherine’s Vanity and raised among Mistress’s cousins in La Rochelle. That’s in France.” He turned away from her and lifted his chin. “As for my name, my first Mistress—Vivienne’s aunt—called me mon petit prince. She hadn’t sons of her own, mind. Now that I am not so little, Mistress simply calls me Mailys and when she’s deep in the drink, she calls me Cousin or Prince.”

Hermione’s pace slowed, intrigue getting the better of her. “That’s fascinating. May I ask you a question…Mailys?”

“Be quick, Madam. We are almost there.”

“Are you a freeman?”

What Hermione assumed to be a delicate and perhaps an intrusive inquiry turned out to nothing more than an ambivalent shrug for Mailys’ answer.

“That is a complicated matter we don’t have the time to delve into. If you’re asking because you would like to purchase me, then I will simply say that you cannot. I belong to Mistress Vivienne but there’s no legal document to prove it. Nor would I say I’m free. What black man under British rule can? Mistress provides and indulges me much liberty, nonetheless. Much more than the others get around here. After all, she has no interest in running this estate, and Master Buckley didn’t come here to manage a mass of land. He came here to govern a colony, so I take care of the property.”

“That’s quite impressive. You clearly have a formal education, and you’re so very young, too.”

They reached Master Buckley’s closed door. “I run the estate well, you see. So well, in fact, I know absolutely everything that goes on and everyone who comes in and out of it. Even before they get here, I know the goings-on of them and what they need and why they need it. For instance, Madam, Master Buckley could’ve received you at ten. He had no appointments or assignments to speak of aside from double-checking my bookkeeping for last month’s spending. I gave the extra hour because I believed you needed it. I could smell the chill off your feet—never mind the fear in your eyes—and thought you needed a bit more time before swearing yourself to Master Lynch.”

“Oh, um, thank you, I guess,” Hermione said. She wasn’t entirely sure whether to be grateful or not for that extra sixty minutes.

Mailys’ eyes became comically large, and he turned the handle of the office door. “I also thought it would give them time.”

“Them?”

“Them,” he repeated giddily and pushed open the door, revealing a surprising number of people. First, there were Adam and Patsy who caught her attention. They stood by the far wall, Adam’s arm chastely and protectively round Patsy’s waif-like middle. She had a warm blanket around her shoulders and a stein of something piping hot in her brittle looking hands.

And then there was John holding his sharpened sabre erect. When their gazes met, his wonderful blue eyes lit up in relief. He immediately sheathed his sword and opened his arms in beckoning invitation.

Her heart leapt into her throat and she unthinkingly scampered into the study and threw herself at him like the besotted and relieved ninny she was. In her peripheral, she saw Hal resting a pistol on Michael’s neck. On the other side, she saw Governor Buckley pouring himself a large glass of brandy.

“Get your hands off her, Grey,” Michael roared.

She ignored him, burying her face into John’s frock and screamed, “They killed Abe!”

John held her tightly with his free arm, pressing a kiss against her forehead. His lips were soft, and her skin tingled from the contact, proving he was not a figment of her imagination brought upon by lack of sleep, hunger, and dehydration. Raising up on her toes, she pressed her own lips to his and further melted into the taste and feel and the reality of him. They hadn’t kissed or touched since yesterday morning, and she suddenly felt starved for him. Not for sex, but for his reassuring and gentlemanly presence. She was safe, so long as he was close by. He would never let anything bad happen to her if he was there to stop it.

Damn it, she loved him. How could she not love the man who slept outside her room all those nights to ensure her protection and rode through the night to rescue her, Adam, and Patsy?

“I know,” he said between kisses.

“He saved Adam’s life. Adam was trying to protect me and Patsy. Allen Lynch fired a gun at him, and Abe jumped in front of him to take the blows.”

John stiffened and in a dangerously low voice, Hal hissed out, “Is that so?”

“Jesus, Lynch,” grumbled the governor, slamming down his now half-full glass on his desk and raised to his feet. “You’ve gone and made a fucking mess.”

“You think anyone’s going to care about some freeman nigger?” Michael snorted.

Hermione launched at him, claws out. John and his fast reflexes wrestled her back beside him.

“You bastard!” she seethed.

The flames of candelabras and oil lamps in the room swelled and flickered as did the fire in the hearth.

Hermione purposefully bit her tongue. Blood and saliva swirled together, before she hawked a wad of it directly in Michael’s face. The slippery mass satisfyingly hit him in his right eye, and he reared back, grimacing.

“Now, Hermione, be reasonable—"

 “I curse you!” she bellowed. “I curse you, Michael Lynch, to a life of a misery and impotency—”

“What in God’s name?” The governor frowned and leaned back into his chair, sipping brandy and sort of seeming to enjoy the spectacle.

“Hermione, what are you doi—” John tried.

“Ut placida! In Circo nomen impotens es!”

“Did you just say in Circe’s name?” Hal questioned. “As in…Lesbo’s Circe? The mythical goddess who—”

Hermione cut off Pardloe with a shriek and shirked John’s grip, so she could snatch an erotically designed paperweight from the governor’s desk. She chucked the iron penis at Michael and hit him solidly in the pelvis, his knees bowing and the wind leaving him in a short whoooosh.

“I’m going to turn your cousin Allen and Vincent into swine!” she exclaimed. “And I’m going boil them alive and feed them to those little puppies you supposedly saved!”

“I did save them,” said Michael from the floor, groaning and gasping in pain. “You think I lied about that?”

“I don’t know what to think!” she said hysterically. “You kidnapped me. You kidnapped my students, and threatened to hurt them if I didn’t marry you and if I didn’t behave. If I didn’t play the compliant fiancée. You were…You were going to rape me, Michael. Patsy is ill, and you didn’t care she could die if I wasn’t able to help her. You didn’t care at all. You didn’t care when your cousin tried shoot Adam and then killed Abe who was a good man and in love with Charlotte.”

“Hermione, I love you—”

“No, you don’t! You don’t know what the word means!” Her voice cracked and her following words came out hoarse and broken. “You’re sick, Michael, and there’s no help for it.”

“I was scared, Hermione,” he argued. “You were going to marry Grey on Thursday. I couldn’t let that happen, and I saw your face yesterday at the Turners’. You didn’t look all that excited about it.”

“So you thought it was a bloody invitation to commit a string of crimes?” Hermione cast a speculative eye at Governor Buckley. “Will he and his cousins go to jail?”

“Don’t worry yourself with the punishment,” John said, hovering his hands over her shoulders like she was a glued-together piece of China teetering on a ledge, about to shatter again.

She folded her arms. “I won’t so long as there is one.”

“There will be,” Hal assured. “Though I’m not entirely convinced it will be the one they deserve.”

“They’ll be held in the local jail under all suspected charges,” Buckley said. “Whether or not any of the charges stick is questionable. These are Lynches, after all.”

“You’re joking!” Hermione growled. “So they’ll just walk free?”

Buckley showed his palms in surrender. They were soft and pale, displaying that he was a man of leisure and not one of action.

“Kidnapping nobility is no light matter, Madam, nor can I afford the wrath of Mount Vernon’s master despite my fortunate disposition as governor. We’ll do what we can given the circumstances.” He flicked his fingers at Hal. “Your Grace, I’m allowing you and the search party you brought to escort Mr. Michael Lynch to our local jail where he will join his cousins. I trust he will make it there alive, but a few bruises and scrapes may go amiss. And if he attempts to escape or disarm you, you or your wife may put a bullet in him in such a way as to incapacitate him but not outright kill him.”

“Hermione,” Michael tried, craning his neck to get a good look at her before. “I’ll fight for you. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

Hal escorted the man out of the office by gun point, saying, “You will never see her again, do you understand?” 

Buckley pointed at Patsy and Adam. “As for you two— Mailys!”

The young butler was heard well before being seen. The clapping sounds of his shoes hitting marble echoed towards them from down the hallway. Once he arrived, he bustled in on his tiptoes, pinched the side of his puffy pantaloons, and curtseyed so deep, his wig nearly fell off. “Master Governor?”

The governor’s face grimaced at the boy’s theatrics. “His Grace’s son will stay here for a moment, but please escort young Patsy to the tearoom where she will receive a sizeable spread consisting of iced buns and ham sandwiches. Adam Grey will join her soon. Send for my best physician to examine them. Dr. Wentford must make note of every bump and bruise upon their persons. Also, tell the cook to ready up an adequate celebration feast for this evening and a cake. Pull out the good brandy and wine. Ready up three, no four bedrooms, one of them being the Williams’ suite.”

Mailys curtseyed again and performed a high-kneed sprint out of the office. “Right away, Master Governor! Right away! Follow me, young mistress!”

Patsy reluctantly pulled away from Adam’s side and then hastily hugged Hermione, her thin arms squeezing her tightly before releasing to follow Mailys.

With three of them left in the office, Governor steepled his fingers. “So,” he began, sounding equally fatigued and attentive. “My congratulations on your engagement, Lord John. His Grace mentioned you are planning to marry this Thursday.”

“…I suppose, Governor…” John said, hesitant.

“And am I correct in assuming that marrying is something you still wish to do—”

“No,” Hemione replied, causing the governor’s brows to arch.

“Really?” Adam question, confused.

John winced at the boy. “It’s complicated.”

“I imagine so.” The governor chuckled, stroking his chin. “But I know the Lynches well. I wouldn’t put it passed them to orchestrate another abduction. They may not be so eager if you both were to be safely married upon your return to Lynchburg. You can still have your celebrations there on Thursday, but you are both here now, and Adam can act and sign as a witness. He’s young, but myself and the law won’t fault him for it just now.”

A rapping on the wooden door frame had them turning their attention to the visitor. It was an ancient man dressed in plain, shapeless breeks and a muddy frock. He removed his dirt-streaked hat and stepped into the office.

“Forgive my tardiness, Governor.” He dipped his chin.

“Nonsense, your time couldn’t be more perfect!” Buckley boomed jovially, coming out from behind his desk to shake hands with the man.

“My horse and I came across a small beast, and I was thrown—”

“Thrown? My good minister, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine, but if I could trouble one of your groomsmen in giving my Sugar Beet’s right front leg the once over, I’d be tickled.”

“By all means, yes. In the meantime, allow me to introduce you to the happy couple. Lord John and Madam Harmony Christie will—

“It’s Hermione ChristAKOS.”

“—Their respected nephew Adam Grey will bear witness to their nuptials. They travelled all night from Lynchburg and are to be wed at once, Minister Langley.”

It really was unfair.

Claire got to be drunk off her arse for her second wedding, and Hermione had to be frighteningly sober during her own.

“We don’t have to do this,” she sniffled, her face squashed into John’s chest.

“Here and now or on Thursday, Hermione,” he said, caressing her back. He then cupped her face and tilted her head up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed the droplets from underneath her bottom lashes. “We gave a solid effort living in sin, and now we either live on borrowed time or get it over and done with now. Let us not spend most of our week fretting over Thursday and my leaving on Saturday. Come what may when I return or if I even will—”

“You will, John Grey! Do I make myself clear! I’ll set fire to Boston if you bloody don’t.”

“But this week, I want us to both fall asleep in my bed and have you still there in the morning. No more hiding.”

“I bloody knew it!” Adam raised his fist in triumph. “Henry didn’t believe me, but I knew you two were fooling around!”

The governor shot a nervous look to the minister who was pretending to be immersed by the collection of books on the shelf nearest to him.

“John…John, what about Willie. He should be here. And your brother, too.”

“I know they should.” He bent leaned down and kissed her gently. “I know this is not at all what either of us hoped for or imagined but know that I wish to spend the rest of this week kissing you whenever I want in front of whoever I want.”

“Are we ready?” said the governor.

“Yes.” John nodded firmly, his features whitening with each passing second.

“No,” Hermione whispered in misery.

“Wonderful,” said the minister and gestured for them to join him in front of the governor’s desk. “Stand here, yes. Adam, young man, you shall stand right here. Stand tall and proud for your uncle, boy. Governor, you there. Yes. Good, good. Now join hands, you two. Wonderful, wonderful.”

Minister Langley beamed at all of them, opened his Book of Common Prayer, and cleared his throat.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony.”

“Harmony Christie, wilt thou—”

“Hermione Christakos,” enunciated Hermione crossly.

“Yes, yes. Do you have a middle name?”

“Uh…Jeanette,” Hermione sort of lied. It was Jean, but she was named after her grandmother, Jeanette Granger.  

“Really?” John narrowed his gaze. “I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

“It’s not very Greek, is it?”

“Harmony Janet Christie," the minister restarted and incorrectly so. “Wilt thou have this man to by thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony?”

John squeezed her hand when five or so seconds passed in silence and then stroked her knuckles with his thumb for good measure.

“It will be all right,” he mouthed to her, forcing a pained grin on his face. He looked like he was trying not to fart at a highly sophisticated tea party.

“Harmony, dear?” urged the minister.

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes and then closing them. “I…I will.”

“Wilt though obey him, service him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Swallowing vomit, she croaked out another, “I will,” like it was causing her physical pain.

“And Lord John William Bertram Armstrong Grey—”

“Well, you got that all tidy and neat, didn’t you, minister,” Hermione muttered under her breath

“—will you have this woman to by thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s Ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony?”

John exhaled, soft and long. “I will.”

“Wilt though protect her, love, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” he said, this time his tone holding a tad more strength.

“The ring?”

John let go of Hermione’s hand to retrieve from the recess of his frock a sapphire ring, much to her surprise. Her eyes widened, recognizing it as the one he usually wore. Until now, she hadn’t noticed it missing. She vaguely recalled him offhandedly mentioning that it belonged to a dear friend of his who had passed a long time ago.

“Our dear Christopher Bobwhite gives us his blessing and congratulations. He was expectedly confused at first of our announcement but turned supportive rather quickly.” said John. “He promptly referred me to his smith yesterday. The young chap was fast as he was talented. He was able to resize it in short order.”

“I always thought it was very pretty,” Hermione said quietly. She flexed and contracted her fingers in indecision before removing her lace glove and offering John her left hand, raising her chin defiantly

“I will not give you my right hand like Claire gave hers to Jamie. I will not have both my ring fingers taken from me. You will have to share. I will not and cannot remove my late husband’s ring, so yours will join it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to, my dear,” John assured her, sliding the band onto her already occupied finger. The band was a perfect fit, and her jaw quivered at the sight of it. The added weight to her digit—meager as it was—made it feel heavy.

 “Repeat after me, Lord John,” said the minister.

“I was married once before and know what to say. With this ring, I thee wed.” John brough her right hand to his lips and kissed both rings, her knuckles, and then turned her hand to press his lips against the pulse point at her wrist. “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

“And you, Harmony?”

Her face flushed hotly, and unshed tears distorted her vision and burned her eyes. Choking back a sob, she spoke, “W-With this ring, I thee wed. With my b-body, I thee worship, and with my worldly g-goods I thee endow.”

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” announced Langley, delighted and completely oblivious to the couples’ turmoil. “Lord John, you may kiss your bride, and I bless your union with many, many babies. Congratulations to you both!”

To be continued…

Chapter Text

John tilted up her trembling chin with a crooked finger. His eyes meeting her doe, dewy ones, and he lowered his mouth to hers. He paused before contact, their lips nigh on touching. Hermione remained unmoved, and he could hear and feel the catch of her breath on his face.

Her tongue darted out nervously, wetting her lips and nearly touching his own.

He closed the gap.

A gentle kiss followed by a series of sticky ones. Apples, spices, tea, and Hermione flooded his awakened John's senses. He cradled the back of her head and quite forgot he’d just unhappily got shoved into a marriage and that there were three other people in the room—one of them a man of God.

Hermione didn’t push him away, either. She equally allowed herself to disappear into the moment and forgot her own reservations. Her tiptoes rose, and she parted her lips in invitation. His tongue flicked out and brushed the tip of hers. Her mouth widened invitingly, and he detangled his fingers from her crown braid to cup that taught and teasing bottom—which had been haunting his dreams as of late—through her cumbersome dress.

“Ahem!”

Adam giddily giggled. “He said you could kiss her, Uncle! Not eat her for lunch.”

John sprung back from Hermione but clasped ahold of her hands again before she could retract too far away. The pad of his thumb ran over the embedded sapphire on the gold band. He peered down at it and the more extravagant diamond ring belonging to her former husband.

Instead of feeling jealous or annoyed at having to share a finger with a dead man, a heady sense of arrogance and triumph coursed through him.

For John Grey had done it. He hadn’t wanted to reexperience matrimonial life and neither had Hermione. Alas, they were married only weeks after she swore herself to live in sin if she should ever fall prey to a man’s affection again.

She had been so resolute, so determined, John believed her unobtainable. If any woman was stubborn enough to defy society’s wrinkled nose at the expense of her own welfare and safety, it was her.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked primly, her eyes wet and doe-like. “You can’t be happy about this?”

“My feelings are mixed, but I will firmly state that I’m not unhappy, Mrs. Gray.”

Those brown eyes widened. Her delicate little hands stiffened in his own. “Don’t call me that.”

“It could’ve been Mrs. Lynch,” his nephew supplied rather unhelpfully.

“I am Hermione Christakos,” she stated. Chin lifted, she turned to face the governor and minister. “I am keeping my last name.”

Both men opened their mouths in protest, and John jumped in before they could say something that would further aggravate his new bride.

“Hermione Jeanette Christakos Grey,” he said softly. He quickly scooped up the governor’s quill and signed his name on the marriage license. Once finished, he brought the back of Hermione’s left hand to his lips. “Will you sign that, Hermione?”

The woman said nothing save returning a dangerously obstinate expression and took the governor’s offered quill.

Austerely, she spelled out in fresh ink Marmony Fanet Dristie Grey, and John could only think of two things in that moment.

The first was the hilarious, yet horrified look on Pardloe’s face once he saw the license.

Secondly, that John would never adore any other woman like he would Hermione Christakos.

The warm water heated John’s hands when he submerged them into the basin in the Williams' suite. A bath would've been preferrable, yet, the large vessel in the corner remained unfilled. Soaking a clean cloth and lathering the pine-scented soap into it, he washed his neck, chest, and arms.

The scabbed-over wound on his arm, still healing from his run in with the intruders back in Cross Creek, prickled uncomfortably from the water and soap.

But no discomfort could compete with the sting of being married for an hour and having yet consummated the event with his bride.

Said bride was at the vanity removing the small floral combs pinned to her crown braid. He watched her pouty reflection for a moment, the brows of her darling face pinched in concentration.

“You are a vision in that dress, Hermione,” he told her truthfully, patting his torso dry before sitting down on the neighboring chair to remove his stocking and shoes.

The bodice was a rich, robin’s egg blue. Yellow blossoms with light green leaves were embroidered on the silken top petticoat. The dress was exquisite and undoubtedly expensive.

“Thank you,” she said blandly.

“It’s not the white and yellow you chose, and I’m sorry for it,”

“It’s…” She practically slamming down the last comb on the vanity’s surface. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not even a big deal.”

The quick and huffy way she said her claim think it maybe it was a little bit.

“You can still wear the gown of your choosing on the Thursday. Louisa will have returned with your fabrics. Also, my brother still expects us to hold reception at Mount Josiah before my departure to Boston. It’ll be expected of you to be dressed in celebratory elegancy as my Lady.”

She rubbed her thumb and fingers into her closed eyes before turning in her seat to look at him. He saw her chin quiver, and her expression was unguarded. “Boston.”

She said the destination like he had purposefully chosen to sail directly to Hell and offer his arsehole to Satan as a way to personally spite her.

“We need to talk." John wondered while washing his feet if it would offend her, charm her, or un-move her should he removed his breeks to thoroughly wash his legs. Appearance-wise, she seemed not at all in the mood for frolicking betwixt the former governor’s sheets.

“Oh? About what?” she chuckled out, wet and borderline hysterical.

Where ought he begin? What did he wish to talk about the most? It was a toss up between that disconcerting "curse" she launched at Lynch in the governor's office. Or...wishing to go over events from whence she left his office yesterday. Should he layout his narrative how it had been sublime luck that young Noah Goldman was fishing not far from his house when he saw the body of Abe Bobwhite floating downstream? The young groomsman hadn’t been dead long when young Noah hoisted him out of the waters.

Abe, a freeman, always had his documentation on him, and Noah was able to find it barely damp and bloodied in a pocket. From there, the young and spry fifteen-year-old hopped on his horse and rode the four miles to Bobwhite’s plantation. On the way, he spotted the abandoned horse and wagon containing foodstuffs and goods. Once he arrived to Bobwhite's with Abe's paperwork and news of the abandoned buggy, Hal and John understood perfectly what had happened. 

John retired his drying cloth and sat down at the small table by the window. It bore a tray of coffee, sugar, cream, freshly baked bread, eggs, whipped goat cheese, salted butter, spiced apple jelly, and ham slices.

He reached for Hermione, inviting her to join him. “Come here.”

She skeptically eyed his offered appendage, did the same to his half-naked person, and then the sumptuous spread on the table before marching over to him like a belligerent youth asked to do a menial task. She dropped her bottom onto the seat with a huffy but no less endearing kerplunk. Arms folded, she stared at the seam over his crotch like she was calculating whether she wanted to enjoy his penis’s more meriting attributes any time soon.

Her tongue darted out, laving at her bottom lip, and he twitched.

“It’s indecent to eat unclothed,” she lectured, her eyes raking upwards to settle on his breastbone. “What if you spill the coffee on yourself? You’ll burn your chest, and I won’t be able to rest my head there.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her admonition and cautiously bibbed a napkin around his neck. “We are married and in private quarters seemingly enjoying a taste of our honeymoon before this evening’s dinner celebration of our vows. Now you are more than welcome to and even highly encouraged to join me in such a state of undress.”

In response, she flung a heaping gob of butter on a slice of bread. “I’m much too hungry, too onery, and too anxious to think of sex, John.”

Women were truly unfathomable creatures.

Layering cheese, eggs, and ham onto the bread, she slapped another buttered slice over that and took a gigantic, unlady-like bite followed by a greedy slurp of coffee.

“Another way men differ from women,” he commented wryly, pouring sugar directly from the tiny pot into his cup of coffee instead of using the little serving spoon. To make the acrid liquid palatable, he required a plantation full of sugar and an entire dairy farm. “I, too, am starving, but if presented a choice between a lavish meal and a quick fuck with my hungry, onery, anxious bride, I’d choose the latter.”

“Men are truly the strangest.” Hermione shook her head, countering his earlier thoughts. “Sex is good and all, but if I’m starving—and I am—and there’s you or my ex-fiancé’s chocolate cake—”

“Chocolate cake?” John raised his brows. “Such decadence. Is it similar to gâteaux?”

Hermione’s deep brown eyes took on a dream-like quality as she poured a splash of milk into her coffee followed by a modest sprinkling of sugar and a dollop of honey. “Perhaps not as pretentious but no less delicious. It’s wonderful with strong cup of Turkish coffee. If there’s any chocolate left at home, I’ll try to make one before you leave. Of course, it won’t be as good as my ex-finance’s. I’ll have to make do with the ingredients we have, and the glaze will be lacking. I think you’ll still like it, anyway.”

His heart foolishly skipped a beat when she said ‘home’. Did she see Mount Josiah as her home now? With him and Willie? Or was she speaking casually?

“I can’t imagine liking it more than sex,” he said, grimacing. “Chocolate is so bitter.”

“Well, you like warm chocolate, don’t you?”

“Minimally, yes.”

“That’s because it’s cut with minimal sugar and not maximum—”

“Sounds expensive.”

“—and even milk can alleviate the sharpness. As for myself, I don’t mind it a little bitter.”

“I still can’t imagine liking it more than being inside you.”

Her cheeks pinked at his words. “Well, if I’m not terribly hungry…or onery and anxious, then I will—”

“Yes?” he said, stirring his coffee and leaning forward.

Her eyes fell to his lips and her own twitched as if suppressing a smile. “Then I will have both.”

His brows furrowed. “You can’t have both. It’s one or the other. Besides, you said if you’re not hungry—”

“There’s always room for dessert, and I don’t compromise,” she dictated, emphasizing her words by use of wielding her teaspoon. “I want both, so I will have both, John Grey.”

John surmised she couldn’t have at all been an easy daughter to raise. Unless her parents brought up her this way, and he couldn’t imagine any parents—save royalty and the higher echelons of the gentry—instilling such entitlement into their daughter.

John believed her parents raised her well but couldn’t fathom she was a complete product of her upbringing. Her parents clearly knew so little about her, given how Hermione revealed to him that they didn’t know about her scars. She had hidden so much from them and didn’t seem to value their thoughts or opinions on how she wanted to live her life. The proof of that being how she ran off and eloped with her late husband.

He did not want that for his own children. Yes, he saw value in young ones growing up to think for themselves, but if Willie grew up, made decisions that hurt him both physically and emotionally, and then ultimately ran away, John’s heart would break.  

“The rules are—"

“Fuck the rules. If they are not in my favor, I don’t like them and I don’t care for them. I want it all, so I will have it all.”

“That’s a dangerous mentality. Especially for a woman.”

He knew this about her already. She immensely disliked societal rules regarding her sex. She wanted to do whatever she wanted and be whoever she wished and to hell with anyone who judged her for it or got in her way.

“I think we ought to discuss the license, Hermione,” he said, changing the subject since they were clearly not going to have sex in the next ten minutes.

“What about it?” she asked, her voice raising in contest. She uncrossed her arms and pointedly reached for her butter knife to slather another slice with butter and spiced jelly.

“You didn’t sign your legal name.”

Her eyes glinted like the painstakingly polished cutlery before them. “Whatever I jotted down was sufficient.”

Aggressively, she chomped down on her bread.

“It could be challenged.”

She swallowed and smacked her lips, unconcerned. “Who would do that?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” he clipped, irritated, pugnaciously buttering his own slice. "Perhaps the bastard who tried to force his name and cock upon you.”

Hermione dropped her slice face down on her plate with a mushy plop and launched to her feet, pacing with her hands at her cinched waist.

“I would applaud your audacity if it wasn’t so risky. Making your H look like an M. The J like a pretentious F. Serious matters aside, it's quite humorous. My brother may pass out from fury alone.”

Her pacing stopped, and she glanced at him over her shoulder. Her mouth quirked as did her eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me, my lord. Signing as I did could get us out of this. When you return from Boston, we’ll seek an annulment.”

John didn’t believe her to be naïve, so he thought her being impertinently ignorant an adequate substitute. The reality was in front of her face, but Hermione was staring at the sky, the ground, and at her peripherals. Spy or not, after what she was willing to do to protect Adam—marry a beast of a man and suffer rape—Hal and Minnie would never let her leave the family.

“I didn’t want to marry,” he reaffirmed calmly. “But here we are, and I’m only a little bit sorry for it. Not too much. You see, Hermione, I quite like you. My fondness will likely still be present if I return from Boston—’

“There you go with this if again,” she hissed. “You’re coming back.”

“Beside, one of the grounds of annulment is if the marriage hasn’t been consummated.”

“I know that." She turned and pressed her hands together in a prayer-like fashion. “So I was thinking—”

“No.” He shook his head, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “Hermione, I will not be without you this week.”

“Oh, come on, John—”

“Need I remind you the promise you made?”

“That was…” Her face flushed in frustration, and she stamped her foot. “That was before all this bother.”

“You promised me if I told you about the women of my past, you wouldn’t deny me at all this week. You said you would make yourself available to me. Are you not a woman of your word?”

John wasn’t sure why he asked such a ridiculous question. She was a luscious little liar, and they both knew it.

She scowled and resumed her pacing.

“Would you really deny me this week?” Quietly and bravely, he added, “Wife?”

The term felt nearly toxic on his tongue and tasted akin to juvenile whiskey. His tastebuds and throat were scalded, but the essence...held promise of good things to come if all went well.

If he played his chess pieces accordingly, maybe he wouldn't be miserably bound to her for the rest of his life. Maybe he could be truly happy. They could be truly happy.

She must’ve read parts of his mind because her spine visibly stiffened. “I can’t believe all this happened because you lost a bloody chess match against your brother.”

“If it make you feel better, I don’t think us marrying so quickly was what he wanted. It was something he wanted to hold on to if you were in fact pregnant. Lynch was talking at the Turners. Discussing in great detail how he was going to court and marry you. He planned to ask for your hand at Christmas, and you’d both marry in the spring. He’d sail you to Georgia afterwards, meet his parents, build you a house, and give him at least five or six children before you got too old.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware of what he had planned,” Hermione said, her tone quiet and withdrawn. She sat back down at the table and jadedly resumed eat.

John wondered if it was a bad time to bring up how he wanted children with her. At least three but no more than four so long as her health allowed it.

“Hal worried, and with good reason, that he wouldn’t be able to hold onto you f-for me while I went to Boston,” John stammered, embarrassed. He ducked his head, avoiding her gaze.

That came out all wrong, and he could feel the drop in the temperature.

“Hold on to me?” Her voice most definitely held an edge to it. “Like I was some shiny bauble in a shop stowed away behind the counter until the time is right?"

“That…did not come out the way I intended it—”

“But you meant it!” She assuredly was going to resume pacing, but he grabbed her hands and held them in his own.

He stood up carefully and jerked her to him, wrapping his arms around her waist before she could escape. He wanted to kiss her but settled for a forced embrace in case she bit his mouth. Removing his bib, he smashed her against his chest and tucked her fuming head underneath his chin.

“Michael was…is a Lynch. On the off chance you failed to notice, home,” he said gingerly into her unravelling braid, “is in Lynchburg.”

Hermione expressed a grumbling noise of disgust.

“My brother wouldn’t have been able to spare you from him or his family for long, save sending you out of the colony. Even if you and I became engaged under pretense, Lynch displayed confidence and rightly so that you would become his wife. Hal and I had no desire to make enemies of the founders of Lynchburg—”

“I think you failed,” she muffled, her breath hot against his chest. Her lashes unintentionally tickled him, and gooseflesh puckered his skin. Instinctively, he pressed a kiss against her hairline.

“I choose muddled relations with the Lynch family than being unable to save you from him.”

She slumped against him, the tension flopping out of her spine, but ready to spring back up at a moment’s notice if necessary. “It would’ve been a short marriage between Michael and I."

“Oh?”

She nodded sagely, looking up at him, her eyes slanted and sparkling with mischief. “He may’ve planned a whole future for us, but not terribly long after he gagged your nephew, I began planning Michael’s death.”

“Tell me,” he said, intrigued.

“It would require sacrifice on my part and many lies.”

John refused to delve further into what she meant by sacrifice. He wouldn't go in that direction and dwell on the what-ifs. Hermione was perfectly encased in his arms, marvelously unhurt and unsullied.

“I have a feeling you are no stranger to both concepts,” he said, somewhat accusingly.

Her lips pursed. “On our way to Georgia, I would have slowed our journey in North Carolina, luring him out of the way to Fraser’s Ridge—”

John’s jaw came unhinged. “You would have Jamie kill him?”

 “Absolutely not! I would kill Michael! Slowly and painfully with Claire’s knitting needles—”

“A spectacular use of them, undoubtedly.”

“—and feed him to White Sow, bit by bit, strip by strip, sinew by sinew, and chunk by chunk. In his oozing, open wounds, I would flick drops of Fraser’s unfished whiskey.”

“I have half a mind to call you cruel, but I don’t take lightly to the kidnapping and rough handling of my nephew and my lover.”

“If you think that’s cruel, I did consider travelling with him the entire way to Georgia and telling his mother on him, who is apparently a Muskogee, and Michael described her as terrifying.”

He chuckled, thumbing her chin and pressing his nose against hers. “It would’ve been true mercy to end him in Jamie’s illegal distillery then.”

“Really give that whiskey its amber color.”

His smiling lips kissed the spot between her brows, and her skin smelled tantalizingly of buttered honey and peppermint oil. Madam Buckley spruced her well and good, hadn’t she?

“You really did save Adam, Hermione,” he said, cupping her face. “And with that, you have my eternal gratitude, and my brother and Minnie will forever be in your debt.”

“I would’ve never let Michael or his family hurt him or Patsy. I wanted Michael to leave them behind in Lynchburg, but he knew he had to use them for leverage. Plus, they were witnesses to everything...”

She trailed off, her tone growing tired.

“The children are safe,” he assured her.

She nodded, eyelids heavy. “Yes,” she agreed, suppressing a yawn.

“You are safe.” His fingers found the buttons of her bodice and shed the heavy garment from her top petticoat.

“Am I?” she questioned, narrowing her exhausted gaze at his working fingers.

The mass of petticoats joined the dress, and she stood before him, swaying in her borrowed chemise and French corset. He twirled her around with gentle and chaste care, unlacing her completely and allowing the restricting garment to collapse at her feet.

Without preamble, he scooped her up into his arms and walked her over to the bed and laid her down gently. After a spot of maneuvering, he got her tucked under the covers and watched her petite little body sink deeply into the feather bed.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and a ghost of a smile graced her lips. “You’re not going to make love to me?”

What he wanted to do to her was beyond lovemaking and required the two of them to be refreshed and reenergized.

John returned to the table and ate before removing his trousers and joining his new bride in bed. They weren’t at all comfortable for sleep, so he saw no reason to keep wearing them.

The aches of riding all night in a speeding carriage subsided some when laying down. For a moment, he rested on his back before shifting onto his side to stare at Hermione who had her left hand beside her face. He scooted closer, careful as to not disturb her slumber, and touched the ring he gave her.

The one Hector gave him all those years ago.

Frankly, John hadn’t wanted to part with the precious jewel piece but…

But…

Hermione needed a ring from him, and Bobwhite’s blacksmith could’ve hastily fashioned any chunk of metal in due haste. John also could’ve asked for a ring from Louisa or Minnie, and they would’ve eagerly obliged. Alas, he wanted to give Hermione something that was both his and meaningful. He hadn’t done that with Isobel and hadn't even felt it necessary. He had assumed responsibility for being her husband and father to her nephew while accepting he would never love her like a husband ought to love a wife.

With Hermione, there was…possibility. Promise. Hope, even.

Perhaps he would love her in time.

Though fatigued, John’s thoughts bittersweetly raced. Despite his and Hermione’s stance on this impromptu union, not all that it would entail was unwelcome.

They may have a child.

They may have children.

Within wedlock.

John smeared a hand down his face and rolled onto his side, facing opposite Hermione. He closed his heavying eyes and forced his mind to quiet, not wishing to get too ahead of himself.

Not a week ago, Hermione bore the vehement attitude against bearing his children. Marriage license and vows were not going to change her mind, and John tried not to take her stance personally. He liked to think her paradigm was nothing against him but the dramatic inconveniences babies unapologetically brought into their parents’ lives.

John fell asleep and dreamt of a comically round Hermione waddling fast as she could away from him. Her motions were teetering, crablike, sideways, and unhurried due to her girth. When he managed to get close enough to touch her, she disappeared into wisps of vapor, leaving behind Hector’s ring on the ground.

His eyes shot open, but it wasn’t the dream that stirred him. The sheets and comforter were off him. A subtle weight pressed on his torso. Teeth and wet lips softly nibbled his bottom one. Brown, unruly curls surrounded him, and a fingertip circled his left pebbling nipple. A soft-skinned pair of strong legs straddled his right leg, hips gyrating slowly as a dewy quim massaged itself against his thigh muscle.

John grabbed ahold of Hermione’s warm, naked waist, the borrowed chemise gone. Her eyes fluttered open, apple-jelly tasting lips parting from his. Foreheads pressed together, their noses brushed. More purposefully, she rocked her hips. “I need you, my lord.”

She wrapped her hand around his semi-erect penis and began stroking with single-minded intent. He groaned, hips bucking under her attention. Diving his fingers into the coils of her hair, he brought her back to his lips, devouring her own hunger and desperation, absorbing every ounce of it to fuel his own.

He nibbled along her tongue, lips, jawline, and settled on the pulse of her neck. Fantasies of her sitting at the governor’s dining table that evening with his mark on her had him scraping his teeth along her skin.

“John, you’re going to…oh.”

He clenched the muscle of his thigh, encouraging friction, and filled his palm with her breast, massaging the sweet and subtle mound. The pads of his fingers danced over her nipple and when he was certain he had left a lasting bruise on her neck, he migrated his mouth down to the cheeky little berry. Hermione arched her back, breaths coming out in shivering pants. She cupped the back of his head, her fingers tugging at his locks.

In one smooth motion, he maneuvered her beneath him, pillow or two below her, giving him the perfect angle to latch onto to her other breast and shower it with similar attention. Over and over, up and down, he skirted the tip of his tongue over the sharply erect bud.

Feeling the shifting and parting of Hermione’s legs, his peripheral noticed her forearm lowering. He tilted his head and watched as she plunged two fingers deep into her quim, her inner thighs flexing.

Whatever amount of blood remained in John’s brain promptly abandoned ship and swam southward. Her nipple popped out of his mouth, his cock hardening impossibly further. He dumbly scrambled backwards to acquire a more superb view of the goings on between his bride’s legs, her knees widening under his gawking. Crawling between the space of her legs, John settled on his belly and was vaguely wondered if he ought to replace Hermione’s wet, sticky fingers with his own. Perhaps, his mouth instead.

As it was, he couldn’t bring himself to move, and Hermione made no request of him to touch her. If anything, he quite captured the notion she was putting on a performance for him.  

Two wet fingers remerged from her pink, glistening depths to circle her swelling nub, ministrations slow and exaggerated. When she revisited her cavern, she planted her feet on the bed and canted her hips and bum upward. Her other hand massaged her breast, caressing and tugging at the nipple.

Long, exquisite minutes ticked by, and John found himself yearning to see her shatter.

Delicately, he palmed her inner thigh, the muscle jumping in surprise from the contact. “How close are you?”

“Oh, um…” She began to resume her focus over her nub using quickened motions. “C-Close. So close.”

“Have you done this before thinking of me?”

Her eyes pinched close in concentration, and she nodded.

“Tell me about the first time you did? When was it?” Unable to wait a moment longer, he thrust his middle and ring finger into her quim. He searched for and found that sensitive patch within her that had Hermione's legs shaking. 

"Oh, God!" Her walls clamped, and he pressed his free hand to a knee to keep her open for him. "It was af-fter I wo-woke up. That first...that first time! Oh, God, I'm coming!"

Coming.

John mouthed the word, fascinated.. Ecstasy blasted over her features like a blast of cold wind on a sweltering day while her slippery inner walls spasmed around his undulating digits

Never once in his life had he heard the term coming in association with sexual climaxing.

Admiring the pool of slickness gathered in his palm, the soaked sheets, and Hermione's wrecked features, he thought perhaps it wasn't an entirely unsound homonym.

Hermione's working hand fell to the side, and he removed his drenched fingers from inside her to lightly trace the outskirts of her nub.

That dizzy simper fell from her face, belying both pleasure and pain. Her stomach contracted, and she shifted her hips in indecisiveness. "I want you inside me. No..." She licked her dry lips, breathless. "No more direct contact."

"Are you sure?" He lowered his head and swiped his tongue over her cluster of nerves.

Her legs jerked, and he pressed down on her inner thighs to keep her still. When he repeated the sentiment, she brought the heels of her hands to her eyes and hissed through her teeth, but did not tell him to stop.

"I just want your cock," is what she did say and in a petulant tone, no less.

He gripped the object of her desire to keep himself from spilling his seed prematurely and placed his other flat on her stomach in a subduing fashion. He would give Hermione what she wanted all in good time, but tasting her whilst she writhed naked beneath him was his top priority. He had only done this once for her, and he had been going at blind and nearly suffocated by her petticoats in the process.

Curling an arm around her upper leg, he used his tongue, lips, and heedful scrapes of his teeth. Ignoring his own desperate need for release, he focused on bringing her over the edge multiple times. His dedication and service were not entirely unselfish or due to reciprocation for how she'd already given him her mouth thrice. Per her claim, he had her love, but what he truly hoped was that if he showed attentiveness and placed her pleasure above all else, she wouldn't see their relationship as a means to an end. An unwanted and inconvenient marriage needing to be annulled or divorced when he returned from Boston.

Once he rendered Hermione to a whimpering state of incoherent babbling, John rose to his knees. He peered down at her and haughtily assessed she had the solidity of warm jam. Her limbs held no starch, and she barely seemed to notice him pushing his cock into her.

As for him, he nearly blacked out from the glory of it all.

Controlling the instinctive urge to rut his hips forward and plunge into her like a contemptible pervert fresh out of prison, John gradually sunk his length into her inch by inch. Hermione was wet and hot, her walls hugging him in urgency. He hovered over her, holding weight on his arms. His pace started slow and for a few moments, she did nothing but lay there listlessly like melting butter on hot bread. Her lashes were low, the rise and fall of her chest steady, and her arms were cast heavily above her head. He couldn't help but wonder if she'd fallen asleep.

"Hermione?" he grunted, his hips stuttering to an even more measured pace.

She blinked and then her eyes began to focus. Those brown eyes, soft and large, settled on his face, and then a dazed, toothy smile stretched her lips. "I love you," she murmured.

"That's nice," he said like the fucking idiot he was.

And then without warning, she lifted her legs and crossed them over her torso, which in turn, made his own eye cross.

"Geeugh," he noised unattractively, nearly losing his balance and falling to the side. He steadied himself by holding her knees and moaning embarrassingly loud at the wickedly tight vice milking his cock. 

Baser instincts overpowering his senses and body, he violently pummeled her compressed quim. The headboard banged against the wall, and John didn’t bloody care if the entire bed should blast through the wall into the neighboring bedroom. The entire house could fall down around them.  None of that would matter. All that mattered was he must fuck his new wife silly, so she’d be less inclined to evaporate into thin air like she had in his dream should it strike her fancy.

Hermione crumbled one final time for him, the flutters feeling more like firm, stuttering squeezes around his cock. Weak and unable to disengage, he exploded deeply into her cunt.

“I’m sorry. I’m really,” he choked, pelvis still beating against hers, “quite bad at this.”

Her flushed and lightly freckled legs toppled to his sides. Once he was fully spent, he stilled and collapsed his lips upon her own. She promptly wrapping her arms around him, running fingertips and nails along his back. When they parted for air, he rested his head on her sternum, their lips both tender and swollen.

“Yes, you are rather the worst, John Grey,” she breathlessly chuckled. “Atrocious, even.”

He sluggishly lifted his head. “Are you upset with me?”

She tenderly cupped his face. Their noses touched, and she smiled so sweetly at him in such a way he had never seen before. “I'm furious."

Sensing he wasn't in any immediate danger, he kissed her again, this time quick but gentle. His body lay heavy and slack upon her as he dozed off again, but she seemed complacent and sleepy, as well, beneath him with his softening cock still burrowed inside her.

To be Continued..

Chapter Text

Fraser’s Ridge, The Colony of North Carolina

Mid April 1769

Despite the relatively balmy day, Claire Fraser wiped droplets of sweat gathering at her hairline. Yanking a kerchief from her apron, she tied it high upon her forehead and resumed the physically demanding task of scrubbing laundry.

The early afternoon sun cheekily greeted her by coming out of hiding from the morning rain clouds. Though the days fluctuated from chilly to humid, the season still promised several sleet storms, and Claire sensed the spring season itching to belatedly join the Fraser community.

Winter arrived fashionably late and was no less brutal when she had. Feet of wet snow piled high against the cabin for two months. Frozen, wet icy clusters still dwelt on the eastern side of it. The ground remained sopped and unready for most seed-planting, and her fingers yearned to thrust into the soil and prepare the grounds for the summer crop.

The sound of Clarence braying had her raising her head to see the long-awaited return of her dearly missed nephew and John Quincey Meyers. The two returned weeks later than expected, and she was glad to see them unharmed and in relatively good health.

Abandoning the clothes in the barrel of wash, she rushed to meet them and slung her arms around Ian. He smelt ungodly, but that didn’t stop her giving him a solid smooch on his hallowed cheek.

Expectedly, he was thinner than when she last saw him but otherwise well. Over Ian’s broad, yet bony shoulder, she smiled at Meyers and tried not show any disappointment or worry that they didn’t have anyone else with them.

“Your little lass didn’t come with us, Mistress. Had she, we would’ve brought her to you weeks ago,” he said with polite regret, reading her glass face. “But it was an honor to meet her, and she sends her regards to you and your husband. On our way south, we decided to keep company in Anna Ooka. Ian’s Cherokee and Muskogee is coming along nicely.”

Claire released Ian and stared up at him, inquiringly. “Hermione didn’t want to come? I thought for sure she would.”

Her nephew’s homely face flickered, and he filched from his satchel several bound letters. “Much has changed wi’ her since we las’ saw her, Auntie. When we arrived at Mount Josiah, she wasna able tae formally receive us.”

Dread plowed into Claire, and she cupped her ribs with clasped hands. “U-Unwell?”

The young man nodded.

“What do you mean unwell?”

“She was bedridden,” Meyers provided, frowning. “I only caught a glimpse of her from the hallway, but she was pale and stricken. She allowed Young Ian for visits into her chambers but not too close.”  

Claire’s chin trembled, and she cupped her quivering mouth. Tears blurred her vision. “Oh, God, I shouldn’t have let her leave. What on earth does she have?”

 “A wicked parasite if I’ve ever seen one,” Ian said.

“A parasite?” sputtered Claire, mentally running through a list of remedies such as a strongly brewed tonic of wormwood.

“That’s what she called it.”

“I gave her notes,” Claire insisted, looking to Ian. “They were of cures and remedies of common maladies. There were clear instructions on what Hermione should do in cases such as these.”

Ian anxiously stepped forward. “I reminded her of what ye gave her, but she said they didnae work.”

Claire’s heart dropped like a stone into her stomach.

Her nephew doggedly raised his head. “I worry for her as did Willie. Mibbe she’s getting better now, but I dinna ken for sure. Willie and I asked if ye could find a way to see her, would she receive ye? She declined and said it wasnae necessary.”

Wasn't necessary, forsooth! Claire calculated the time frame and estimated she could make it to Mount Josiah in a week. Optimistically, five days.

And then there was the matter with her local patients. There were children due to be born. She didn’t feel at all comfortable being away from her community for a great deal of time.

Yet how could she let Hermione just wither away and die? Oh, Ian! Why hadn’t he come straight home to tell her instead of fornicating his way through the local tribes? What if it was something truly heinous like cancer? The chances were unlikely given Hermione’s optimal health and age, but anything was possible. Claire couldn’t cure cancer or the like, but perhaps she may be able to diagnose it.

Or hopefully dismiss it all together.

The men followed her into the house and once the tea was ready, she joined them at the table. Relaxing in her chair, she poured a touch of honey into her cup. “Jamie should be back soon. He went to tend to some matters with the Chisholms. So please tell me, aside from being sick, how is Hermione? She was taking care of herself otherwise, correct? I’m certain Lord John would’ve summoned a physician regardless of…of adequacy.”

“Lord John wasnae there,” Ian said, carving into a loaf of bread and divvying it out between the three of them. “He was summoned tae Boston in November and wasnae scheduled tae return ‘til March or maybe even this month. His brother was there—”

“His brother!” boomed Jamie from the doorway.

“Aye,” said Ian, grinning and leaping to his feet to embrace his uncle.

The two clapped each other’s backs, and then stood apart. Jamie raked his cat-like gaze over his nephew to assure he was in one healthy piece before patting his shoulder. “The Duke of Pardloe was there at Mount Josiah. He best ha’ treated ye well in Grey’s absence.”

The young man’s nod was hesitant. “Weel, he was a bit strained when I told him how ye are my uncle, but Hermione and his wife instructed the staff to treat us like kings.”

“Ooch, yes, the Duchess Pardloe,” Jamie said, settling himself down in a chair and helping himself to a slice. “Curious lass, she is.” He bit into the bread. Chewing, he said, “So Hermione didnae join you? Claire and I were sure she would.”

Ian drank deeply from his teacup, shaking his head, frowning deeply. “She was mighty ill, Uncle Jamie. We were there fer three days, and the entire time, I didnae see her leave her chambers.”

“Poor wee lass, indeed,” agreed Meyers. “The housemaids were tending to her often and from what I hear, she still conducted lessons to the children and ran the estate from her bed.”

Jamie shot Claire a worried side-glance.

“She couldnae leave even if she was weel enough tae journey.” Ian set down his cup and ruefully announced, “She and Lord John married before he left for Boston.”

Claire’s cup fell out her hand and drenched her lap, and she barely noticed. “Wh-What?”

“That…” Jamie carefully set down his own tea and leaned towards his nephew. “That is unlikely, Ian.”

“It’s true,” Meyers added. “Damn shame her husband’s away while she suffers this cursed ailment.”

“They married months ago, Uncle,” Ian said, brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Just weeks after they left here. I wouldnae ha' guessed it either. They didnae seem to care for each other in tha’ way.”

“Ian,” tried Claire. “Our friends John and Hermione were…are both in mourning from losing their spouses—”

“Mibbe so,” interjected Ian, “but that didnae stop them from marrying. She dwelt in the master’s chamber, wore John’s ring on her finger next to her late husband’s, and the servants often addressed her as Lady John—”

Jamie leapt his boots, disrupting the contents on the table, his chair’s pegs whining at the friction against the wooden floor.

“Jamie,” Claire said, reaching out to him.

Her husband kicked the wall and began to pace. “What wretched farse did that wee pervert get her into?!”

Eyes falling to the stack of letters on the table, Claire grabbed them and ripped the twine holding them together. Mindlessly, she opened them, not reading any of the contents save for the dates written at the top of the pages.

The first and last letter she had received from Hermione was in January, and the paper appeared to have experienced a hero’s journey in reaching Fraser’s Ridge. It had been dated late October and informed both Claire, Jamie, and Ian that Hermione, John, and Willie arrived safely to Mount Josiah.

Claire was reminded of what much of the letter bespoke, for the words had been primarily for her alone and not Jamie and Ian. Hermione had been dreaming of bearing her late husband’s child—a son she could not possibly conceive given the matters at hand.

Skimming the sheets of parchment, Claire finally landed on one headlining November. She set the remaining letters down and began reading. She didn’t get far before Jamie gruffly told her to read aloud.

“All right,” she said, licking her lips and beginning again.

“Dearest Claire, John has left for Boston today in place of his brother ,the Duke of Pardloe. I think I shall miss him in his absence and worry he won’t come back. Much has happened since my last letter. The Washingtons—yes, those Washingtons—paid us a visit and left their two children to be educated by me for the next few months.”

“Oh, my God,” muttered Claire, bringing the page closer to eyes because surely, she couldn’t have read that right. “I will be acting as governess to Patsy and Young John. The two are delightful, but Patsy struggles in health. Perhaps you recall that she suffers from seizures. There’s not much I can do, save keeping the physicians and their doses of mercury, arsenic, and castor oil the hell away from her. I’ve heard of certain dietary restrictions benefiting those suffering from epilepsy but would be nigh impossible to enforce, for it would require eliminating wheat, sugar cane, and alcohol. I may discuss this option with Patsy should she want to try it. I dare say it can’t be any worse than dosing her with mercury.

“In preparation for Christmas, I’m orchestrating two plays for the children to perform, one of them being a quaint version of A Christmas Carol. In the spring, they’ll perform A Midsummer's Night's Dream.”

“I’ve limited my storytelling to once a week for the children, and the one they like the most is Aladdin which is loosely based off The Arabian Nights tale…”

Claire paused to skim the remaining two pages before looking to Jamie. “There’s nothing more here, really. She says nothing of marrying John. Ian, are you really quite sure—”

“I am, Auntie,” he said. “I mean, it’s no’ that hard tae believe, is it? They are both widowed and ken each other weel.”

“It’s only…” Claire hesitated, setting down the letter and mulling over the right words to choose.

“They had a family wedding portrait commissioned,” Ian elaborated. “Hermione, Lord John, Willie, and bunch of puppies are in it. The artist didnae really do her beauty justice, but ye ken it’s her. She’s in a fancy dress and fairy-like crown.”  

With that, Jamie shoved on his glasses and dove into the remaining letters, ripping open one that had the Grey family seal. “Let us see what wee Grey has tae say, eh? He mayn’t outright say the truth, but I’ll ken what he’s trying tae tell me."

Narrowed blue eyes hastily skimmed the contents. Occasionally, he’d make a displeased grunting sound or chortle. Once he finished reading the last page, he removed his specs and cleared his throat but said nothing.

“Well?” Claire inquired.

“I dinna ken.”

“Ha!” Claire exclaimed, throwing her hands up.

“What did he write, Uncle Jamie?” asked Ian.

“Less than the lass did. He kept tight-lipped about everything, save his unexpected call to Boston in place of his brother and how devilishly cold it is there. He mentioned Willie doing weel in his studies but didnae mention his wife at all.”

Plucking another letter from the pile addressed to her—this one fashioned peculiarly like an origami envelope—Claire gingerly unfolded the tightly creased parchment and saw a velvet pouch within. Pushing aside her curiosity, she set aside the gift and started in on the letter.

“That was the one she gave to me directly,” said Ian. “The others I picked up in Cross Creek.”

Addressed in early February, the letter didn’t even reach the page’s end.

Dearest Claire,

Do not read this aloud or show to your husband.

Despite swearing Ian to secrecy about how ill I’ve become, I fully expect him to tell you the truth the moment he sees you. Yes, I’ve contracted a bothersome illness—a parasite—and have been bound to my chambers for the last several weeks. The remedies you gave me will not work on this beastly, stubborn creature writhing inside me, so I am resigned to conduct my life from the sofa or my bed. Sometimes, I manage a weak pace while lecturing the children but find I’m incapable of standing for long periods of time before I become faint and nauseous.

With the absence of Lord John, young William overly worries and wishes I would simply rest and push aside the schooling. Oh, Claire, I could no sooner stop the earth from spinning on its axis. Education is so dear to me, and admittedly with my condition, we are behind schedule. Our daily itinerary has been cut in half since the New Year. Blinding headaches and fatigue have robbed me of my gumption to continue studies into the afternoon. We often have to conclude our learning around noon.

Reading this, you are probably fraught with worry. Please don’t be, Claire. I’m all right. I will get through this. In fact, I’m certain I will be feeling well enough in the spring to travel. I plan to bid farewell to the colonies in April and sail to directly to Scotland, for I have acquired enough funds and a gemstone for the journey. Craigh na Dun shall be in my reach by the summer equinox if all goes according to plan. The portal’s veil should be thin and pliant like you mentioned. I’m on the brink of tears for how homesick I am, and I am so anxious to see my mum again. I miss her so much.

I hope all is well with you and Mr. Fraser and that the winter has treated you kindly. I would write to you another glorious tale adapted by Mr. Walt Disney, but it’s taken me days to even write this, and Ian will be leaving early in the morning to return to you. Apologies, Claire Elizabeth Randall Fraser.

With much love and affection and my sincerest gratitude and farewells,

Hermione Jean Granger (Malfoy)

P.S.

Please visit in July. A housemaid here, Charlotte, is with child. Though I am sure there are many sufficient midwives nearby, I trust none of them. She has become quite dear to me. In the pouch, there is payment for travel, services, as well as a gift borne out of my gratitude and our friendship.

“Bleeding Christ,” Claire swore, launching to her feet and shoving the letter into Jamie’s chest. As he read it, she paced in agitation. When he finished, he refolded the parchment and dourly stared at the table.

“Uncle?” said Ian, cautious.

“I have to go to her,” she blurted.

“Sassenach—”

“She’s sick!” Covering her face, she stifled her tears. “What she’s describing could be a parasite, but it sounds like it could be a number of other things. Meningitis, for one. Bacterial, and if she’s not properly treated, she could have a seizure. She could have a stroke. Jamie…” Claire placed a hand over her chest. “She plans to leave for Scotland this month. I can’t prevent her from leaving. I don’t want to, but I want her to survive the trip if she hasn't gone already. She needs me.”

Her husband glanced away, his fingers tapping the side of his leg. Softly, yet firm, he replied, “If she hasn’t passed yet or abandoned Willie and John, and ye manage getting tae her side in time, and there’s nothing ye can do, what then?”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed. Racking her brain would be useless. A shot of penicillin would’ve been the ticket in shoving Hermione’s immune system over the worst of it. Without it…

“I can be by her side, so she’s not alone.”

“She won’t be alone. She has Willie and the Greys.”

“You know what I mean.” Lifting her chin, Claire scanned her surroundings, making note of the items needing to be packed. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

Grabbing the pouch, she loosened the strings and dumped out the contents onto the table, lurching back when a sizeable sum of coins hit the table as well as several tiny rubies, emeralds, and a single golden ring.

Quick as lightening, Jamie’s grabbed the ring before Claire could and held it up between them, features washed in horror.

“Oh, my God,” Claire whispered, her knees buckling.

Lynchburg, The Colony of Virginia

Late April 1769

Regardless that her mind was abuzz the majority of the night, Hermione must've fallen asleep, for John awoke her that morning in the same fashion as he had the last three.

His head between her leg, lips and tongue suckling her nub. Three fingers burrowed in her quim stroked the most sensitive parts inside her.

Her hands flew to the headboard, pushing them flat against the wood, and she bucked her hips. Promising pleasant twinges sparked within her lower belly. John's free hand found a tender, swollen breast. He flicked her nipple before skirting it with light, maddening caresses.

Before long, her climax crashed into her. Legs shaking, pleasure erupted from her womb and sent tingles of delight up and down her spine.

Not waiting for her to recover, John dislodged his soaked fingers and maneuvered her onto all fours. Twenty minutes after arriving home from Boston four days ago, they both assessed and agreed such a position was ideal given the circumstantial circumference of her belly.

Expecting to feel the erect girth of him, she puffed out a surprised, "Oh," when she once again felt wet lips and tongue. Her elbows buckled, and she lowered them onto a pillow, trying not imagine how filthy and ridiculous the two of them looked. Draco had liked doing this to her in this way, too but she didn't want to think about him. This was hers and John's time, not his.

Already sensitive from her orgasm, she was hyper responsive to the attention and came again, this time around his tongue.

John's lips brushed her lower back, his fingers massaging her nether lips. "Hermione?"

"Hm?" she noised into her pillow.

"Have you ever...?" He palmed one of her cheeks, the tips of his finger curving into the crevice. "Would you ever want to o-or be open to...?"

That got Hermione's attention, and she looked over her shoulder at his blushing face.

Though embarrassment stained his cheekbones, and he wasn't able to fully finish his inquiry without stammering. Hermione saw the blazing hope in his eyes, and she once again thought of Draco. It was almost impossible not to. Despite him not being her first lover, her husband had guided her threw terrain she had been unfamiliar with and had only read about in naughty literature.

"Yes, and...yes," she said, turning to face him and cupping his cheek. 

She would give this to him and a spectacular blow job that night right before bed.

One, because in a way, John was her husband, and he had approached the subject carrying gentlemanly caution. Two, he wasn't a stranger to sodomy and would know to take great care. Three, tomorrow morning when he arose and reached for her, empty sheets and a letter explaining a fantastical tale of truths would be there in her place. 

Out of gratitude and excitement, John evoked another orgasm out of her prior to getting started on the main course. Afterwards, they contently lay together, limbs intertwined and basking in the afterglow like a pair of newly weds who had all the time in the world

Which they kind of were newly weds, Hermione reluctantly admitted to herself. She and John hadn't much of a honeymoon, the days after the Buckleys were packed full of chaos and stolen moments consisting of groping and snogging. The night before John left for Boston, there had been no sleeping but bouts of fucking broken up John's refectory period where they argued about him leaving and her possibly being pregnant.

There was no "possibly" now. John's palmed the six-month roundness of her belly and in lieu of their rather rambunctious activities, the baby was moving. Awake and rearing for buttered bread and bacon, the little invader showed her revenge for all the tussling by squirming cozily against Hermione's kidneys. 

"He's so alive this morning," John said, moving to kiss her belly. He peppered wet smooches up and down the bump, and then pressed his ear to her skin. "Do you think he can hear me?"

"He is a she," Hermione reminded for the twelve thousandth time since John got home. She wasn't miffed or righteously indigent he kept referring to the baby as a boy. It was common for the era for expectant fathers to do so and if Hermione was being frank, a boy would've been a nice reminder of John to bring with her to the future. Not to mention, much easier to raise. Hermione was self-aware enough to know she as a daughter had not been a sunny picnic in park for her parents.  "And, yes, she can."

"You're so sure it's a girl," he murmured against her belly.

"I dream of her." She finger-combed John's hair, positive their daughter's tresses would have a similar shade. "All the time."

"Do you love her?" he asked.

Perhaps it was a ridiculous question, but Hermione knew his fears and reflected on how adamant she'd been about not having children. Would her resentment at being pregnant spill over onto the child?

Blinking away the tears because her hormones were absurdly explosive this morning, she nodded. "More than anything."

The acceptance of her pregnancy had come long before love. The first trimester and half the second, she'd been miserable. Beyond ill and unable to function as a human being with responsibilities involving the estate and many annoying children. Not until she felt twitches and fluttering did the affection come. And as her middle grew outwards and the nausea abated, so did her heart in a way she had always feared. Babies diverted plans and barricaded pathways to both long and short-term goals. Her life, her heart, her breath, her body, her mind was no longer her own. Her dreams didn't even belong to her. They were brimming with images and scenes of the baby, and Hermione would often wake up, arms aching to hold the inconvenient, little being who blissfully bopped against her bladder all night long.

"Have you thought of any names?" John asked, tracing patterns over their daughter.

"No, not yet," she lied. As if she hadn't spent an entire two hours the Thursday prior in the study loftily quilling out various names by candlelight on many pages of parchment like a twitterpated youth repeatedly writing their first name followed by the their crush's last in a shameful, bedazzled notebook.

"If it is a boy," John said, "we could make him a junior."

Heart-warming images of a doughy little son with bright blue eyes and fluffy blonde hair called Junior made her frown at the impossibility of it.

"Or not," John backtracked. "I do like the name James after Jamie Fraser. It's a good name, and he's a good man."

Ah, yes, Hermione would love to name her child after the man her husband so badly wanted to sodomize.

"What about the name Claire?" she countered.

Expectedly, a badly hidden cringe was the response she got.

Knocking on the door had them scrambling to get underneath the covers, and they both shot nervous grins at the grandfather clock. It was half-passed nine and had once again missed breakfast with the Pardloes and children.

"Yes?" asked John, pinching Hermione's hip and kissing her on the cheek.

"Stop," she giggled.

The door opened and in charged Pardloe wearing the face of a grumpy old parent who realized he begat a litter of failures.

"It's nearly ten," he boomed. "The estate will not run itself. The end of the month is nigh and inventory needs to be done."

"Have a heart, Hal. We never got a honeymoon," John said, moving onto his side. Hermione kissed his shoulder, slinging a leg around his hip and grinning cheekily at His Grace who narrowed his eyes at her.

"Dear sister-in-law," he said with as much affection one would give to a disloyal war horse that gleefully took a shit on his boot. "You have...a visitor."

"Oh?"

John flopped onto his back, looking up at her. "Who is it?"

"I have no idea. I'm not expecting anyone." She glanced up to Hal. "I'm assuming it's not a Lynch."

Hal stiffened. "Of course not. No, this is a freeman who says he has come to give you a message on behalf of his employer. After questioning by myself and Adam, we determined he was not associated with the Lynches. After more prodding, we determined his employer is in search of a governess. The employer would've come, but trouble has befell him, and he is recovering at an inn in Lynchburg."

"Hmm. Well, I'm certainly not taking any more students at this point," Hermione said. "I'm much too far along, but I will meet with him. I hope this freeman was shown to the tearoom and treated well."

"By the time you are dressed and ready for company, he will have been watered and fed to your liking."

"He's not an animal," John said crossly, climbing out of bed and streaking slowly to the armoire for his clothes.

"Well, no more than that Ian Murray and Meyer fellow your wife enveloped into this home while you were gone. I truly thought they'd never leave, and I was half-convinced they wouldn't dream of it unless Hermione left with them."

Hermione laughed. "Oh Hal, even if I had wanted to leave, I certainly couldn't have. I would've died before we left Virginia. And they were only here for three days. The children loved them. Mr. Quincey Meyers was ever so charming and fun, and Ian is such a dear."

"Mm, yes, just like his uncle," said His Grace, ice in his voice.

Once Hal left, she and John washed each other with all the minimal help an ewer and a bar of soap provided before assisting each other with dressing. At her vanity, he styled her hair into a plaited updo with cascading tendrils over her shoulder. Afterwards, they ate breakfast in the study, perused through the estate's monthly expenses, and had sex on the chaise lounge.

Finally, climbing up on eleven, they ambled down the corridor towards the tearoom. Right outside of it, Abigail loitered, casting yearnful moon eyes at whoever was inside. When she saw Hermione and John approaching, she ducked her head and curtseyed.

"I expect you've kept our guest well taken care of, Abigail," Hermione commented, smiling.

She nodded, clasping her hands. "Yes, my lady."

Lowering her voice, Hermione asked, "Is he quite handsome?"

The fifteen-year-old bobbed her head, biting her bottom lip sheepishly and excusing herself. Though Adam Grey had been wooing her something fierce with silly secret sonnets she couldn't read and newly bloomed flowers that made her sneeze. A match with a black freeman as opposed to the son of a duke was more appropriate and, plainly, safer for both parties.

"I feel bad for keeping him waiting," Hermione whispered to John right before painting a bright, welcoming smile on her face, greeting the freeman on his employer's errand. "Hello, I'm Lady John. I understand your employer is looking to hire a governess."

The man who faced the window as she entered turned around quickly and grinned broadly at her. Her heart lurched up into her throat like a bottle rocket at the sight of a man she hadn't seen in two, perhaps, three years.

"Hermione!" Dean Thomas exclaimed in triumph, opening his arms invitation.

Naturally, she screamed.

Chapter Text

Lynchburg, The Colony of Virginia

Late April 1769

Claire Fraser stared outside the window, her patience wearing thin. Surely, it had been hours since Dean Thomas left for Mount Josiah. He should’ve returned by now with news of Hermione's well-being.

Claire would’ve joined him, but she quite suddenly acquired a patient not terribly long after she and Jamie walked into River Inn for a spot of tea and breakfast.

In lieu of events, she didn’t trust her husband to watch over the poor man.

Said poor man suffered from a fractured wrist, broken nose, two loose molars, a bruised kidney, arrhythmia, and healing second-degree burns on his chest. That two latter ailments, according to Thomas, have plagued Daniel Granger for the last two weeks.

Sighing, she glanced back at her resting patient, perplexed.

Daniel Granger, Hermione’s father resembled Frank and, therefore, wasn't too dissimilar in features to Black Jack Randall. The hair was different, certainly. Granger's chestnut hair was curly and possessed auburn undertones. The teeth were also different. The man in front of her, though his mouth was bloody and swollen, had a nice set of straight, pearly whites. Unlike Frank's hazel eyes, Granger's were a richer, molten brown. A smattering of endearing freckles sprinkled his nose and cheeks. A trait his daughter inherited from him.

Beside Daniel Granger, on the bedside table, were his on-person possessions he had kept in a satchel, many of which had flown out upon Jamie’s attack: a leatherbound journal, two pens, a travel-sized spritzer bottle of Old Spice (which Frank used), an odd and thick black rectangle, a teeth-cleaning kit, a package of what seemed to be breath mints, a stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, two bottled Ensure beverages, precisely fifteen small plasticky looking pouches of curry sauce, and a single Cadbury chocolate bar in a sexy purple and gold wrapper.

Claire hovered a pale hand over the chocolate bar, licking her lips at the cursive lettering of the word  Caramello.

Poking it experimentally, Claire hurriedly grabbed the Dairy Milk candy and hid it away in Granger's satchel where she wouldn't be forced to see it.

If the chocolate had simply been for Granger, she might've requested it as payment for her healing services. However, the candy was clearly a gift for his daughter.

Claire hoped Hermione was a 'sharing is caring' kind of person.

With the candy out of sight, Granger's journal began taunting her.

Picking up the journal and opening it, Claire saw an ironic and familiar sight. 

Pictures in sealed plastic baggies.

Pulling apart the seal, Claire pulled out the polaroids to study them.

With Hermione being gone for only a year, the pictures weren't necessarily for her but for Granger to cope with missing his family. The first was of Hermione's adopted younger brothers. They were darling little boys and dressed for Halloween—given their jack o' lantern pails--in unfamiliar costumes. The second picture wasn't a polaroid at all, but a detailed sketch of Hermione. Granger had likely planned to use it in case he reached a dead end locating her and would have to depend on asking people if they had seen the girl in the portrait.  

The second polaroid made Claire purse her lips and raise her brows.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," she muttered. The picture was a younger version of Granger standing next to an exotically beautiful young woman in a bohemian-style wedding dress. Atop of her head was a golden stefana.

When she became painfully acquainted with Daniel Granger, in her mind she envisioned Hermione's mother to resemble Frank's last mistress.

On the contrary, if Frank had ever become involved with a woman like Helena Granger, Brianna may've not been enough to keep him in the painful charade that was their marriage. He would've stayed in her life, sure, but Claire would've no way been able to compete with a woman who was a saucy mixture of Natalie Wood and Elizabeth Taylor.

Claire eyed Granger over the photograph, frowning. He was handsome like Frank, in that je ne sais quoi sort of way. But was he handsome enough to snag Helen of Fucking Troy?

Shifting her gaze to the middle of Granger where his pelvis remained hidden underneath the blanket, she idly wondered if  that  was a deciding factor in Helena's decision to marry him.

Frank wasn't lacking  there , that was for sure.

Putting back the pictures in the baggie, Claire glanced at Granger and then back at the journal, her eyes settling on the header of the first page.

Day 1; 17 Apr 1769

"That can't be right," Claire whispered to herself. "You couldn't have got here from Scotland or Jamaica in such a short amount of time."

Dear Helena, I loathe telling you this, but in case the worst happens, you must know what happened. I didn’t make it through the stones alive. My heart could not withstand the strain, and I fell dead upon arrival, my torso aflame. Dean Thomas, young and healthy, passed through shaken but alive. He extinguished the fire and revived me, but my heart hasn’t recovered. Right after the incident, I checked my blood pressure and heartrate and then again now as I get ready to retire for the evening. I'm unhappy to say that I’ve relapsed into an arrhythmic state.

In the margin of the notebook, Claire read 130/69 with the initials DG next to it. Below that was 122/70 aside the letters DT.

"Not terrible, but at least I have a semi-standard rate for you," she muttered to Granger. An hour ago, when he had fallen into a deep, laudanum induced sleep, she used his blood pressure cuff to see how he faired. Unsurprisingly, given his injuries, his rate was up 145 over 83.

Day 2; 18 Apr 1769

Dear Helena, even before I left to come here, I've been plagued by this fear that I won't be able to come back to you and our boys. I know how I displayed confidence to you and promised I'd return with Hermione. Despite the evidence saying otherwise, I know she'll come home. It's me that can't shake this feeling that I won't.

While continuing our journey towards Virginia, I had suffered an embarrassing set of dizzy spells that put us behind schedule six hours. Our young lad Thomas was ever so patient and didn't once show any sign of annoyance towards me but was clearly worried about me.

The door creaked open. "Sassenach."

Claire snapped journal closed with the pictures inside and returned them the bedside table.

“Are ye still angry wi’ me?” her husband asked when she didn't say anything.

Claire joined him in the hallway. She closed the door behind her and repeated to Jamie what she said earlier.

“Hermione will be furious with you, Jamie.”

“I ken she will, but are  ye  angry with me?”

“Yes!” She mirthlessly laughed. “Yes, I am, Jamie. You could’ve killed that man in there. The man risked his life to find his little girl—”

“I thought he was Randall—”

“You've said that three times already.”

“Ye went green at the gills when seeing him, too, Claire. Don’t ye deny it—”

“My first instinct wasn’t to put up my bloody fists and pummel him to death—"

“Ye of all people understand why I acted in such a manner—”

“Of course, I do, but why can’t you ever just take a pause and  think ? Damn you! You put his companion Dean in a dangerous position. The town could’ve dragged him to the nearest tree and hung him. What if he was followed?”

Jamie touched his own bruised jaw. “He had a mean swing, I’ll give him that.”

“God, Jamie.” Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is such a mess. What are we going to do? How are we going to explain this to her?”

Jamie carefully opened the door to Granger’s room to peer inside at the broken and bloody man that looked so eerily like Black Jack Randall. “Weel, I dinna ken about ye, but I’m curious how she came into possession of Frank’s ring and the jewels.”

Claire touched the golden band that had been reunited with her left ring finger. “I’m sure the explanation she’ll give will not be as wild as your imagination.”

“Bonnet is dead. We’ve ken this for months.”

True, they’ve known the fate of Stephen Bonnet since November. Word of his death reached Fraser’s Ridge, but the details were sparse. It wasn’t until she and Jamie arrived to Cross Creek several days ago when they heard about the three deaths on the night of October 24th, one of them being Bonnet. He was last seen alive escorting a young girl upstairs to a room at an inn. Rumor was that the young lady wore tight trousers, possessed a tightly round bottom, and was a pretty little thing.

“People said a girl of about eighteen,” Claire told Jamie for the tenth time.

“Aye, so they did.”

Claire rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. “Say it was her last seen with him. How’d she kill him? We asked the sheriff back in Cross Creek. There wasn’t a mark on him. He simply fell over and died. God sometimes does that. Strike down the wicked and all that. There was no evidence of a struggle. She’s a foot shorter than Bonnet and half his weight. He could’ve snapped her in half like a twig using one hand.”

Jamie said nothing, smearing a hand down his face. Torn, bleeding knuckles caught her eye, and she contemplated cleaning and wrapping them. Out of necessity, yes, his hands needed treatment, but she was still terribly upset with him. On another note, there wasn’t a safe place to aid him. She and Jamie had yet to purchase a room at the inn, and the tables downstairs were filthy. Staying at an inn in Lynchburg had not been the plan nor in the budget. They had some coins left but were meant for the return trip home. Staying at Mount Josiah had been the expected arrangement.

Out of respect, Claire would not tend Jamie’s wounds in Daniel Granger’s room.

“I hope Dean returns soon. With any luck, Hermione will find the energy to be with him for mere fact her father is here," Claire said. “I think Mr. Granger wouldn’t hurt so bad if the first thing he sees when waking is his daughter.”

Mount Josiah

Somehow.

Someway.

Dean Thomas was in the tearoom of Mount Josiah, and Hermione was in his arms. Her hysterical screaming was being muffled by his woolen vest. He smelt of dust, sweat, and faint spicey tones of Old Spice which was always a staple in her father's grooming kit. She melted even further into her school mate's embrace, seeking comfort in his familiarity. Beside her, John was asking who Dean was and attempting to forcibly remove her from him.

Ceasing her screams, she gulped for air and turned to face a perturbed John. “He’s…he’s…I know him,” she managed. 

She then stared up at Dean, a thousand emotions running through her. She couldn’t decide if she was elated, frightened, relieved, or  furious .

“Oh, my God! What are you doing here? You can’t be here, Dean! You’re…well, you know very well what you are!” She cupped his face. The rough bristles of scruff scratched at her palms, and her first instinct was to kiss him. Not because she was romantically inclined towards him, but because he was  here  in front of her, and she was so happy to see him. The ‘how’ hung heavily over them, threatening to crash down upon their heads.

“I’m here for you, Hermione,” Dean said in that soft murmuring tone of his which made her whole-heartedly believe he never truly kicked his Calming Draught addiction. “But we need to go now. Your father—”

Her heart leapt painfully into her throat. “My father!”

“I beg your pardon,  sir! ” John bellowed, looping an arm around her waist and physically removing her from Dean’s proximity. “You will stop touching my wife—”

Dean’s brows shot upwards. “So it  is  true.”

“My father!” repeated Hermione.

Dean stroked his chin pensively, his eyes darting back and forth between her and John. “He’s here in Lynchburg. At the River Inn. He was all right enough when I left him—”

“What is he talking about?” hissed John, all but manhandling her as she scrambled to return to Dean’s personal bubble. “Who is this man, Hermione? I demand answers at once!”

“All right  enough ? What does that mean?” Hermione tried to detangle the knots of confusing threads she was being subjected to. Dean Thomas stood in front her somehow, and he was telling her that her father was at the River Inn.

“He’s been hurt—”

“Hurt?” she squawked. “What’s he even doing here? How?”

“I got something for you. It’s from Harry.” Dean opened the flap of his leather satchel and pulled out something precious to her and sorely missed.

Her wand.

"Oh, my God." Tears clouded her vision, and she reached for it. "John, let me go. It's all right. Everything will be all right now."

“That can all wait, but your father is injured, and he needs you. I’m out of practice with those kinds of spells. I feared I’d make things worse.”

John did not release her, so Dean inched forward and allowed her to grasp the wand. In seconds, her magic dialed up to an eleven, and citrusy sweet power surged through her veins. The reunion between herself and to the vine wood and dragon heart string caused her stray, curly hairs to stand on end. Her baby pirouetted on her bladder. The mild, crackling fire in the hearth swelled epically, and the bay window burst open, shattering the glass.

Her lover promptly released her.

Turning to face John—the man white as a ghost—she knew an explanation was necessary given the recent turn of events, yet his comfort would have to wait. Her father had found a way to come for her and was hurt doing so.

Daniel Granger hurting in any way, shape or form, was against the rules.

Hermione stepped forward and cupped the back of John’s neck. Rising on her tiptoes, she kissed him soundly, hoping to leave the crackling, zingy taste of her magic in his gawking mouth.

"I love you," she said, nipping at his lips. "I love you so much. Come to the River Inn. I'll explain everything there."

With that, she shuffled a safe distance away, repaired the window with a flick of her wrist, and Disapparated.

At her abrupt vanishing into nothing, John stumbled with a roar of fear and would’ve unceremoniously crashed into the coffee table if the man called Dean Thomas hadn’t gracefully caught him.

“That was close…and a rather dramatic exit our Hermione just pulled,” the man chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. “All right then. Shall we be on our way out? I reckon there’s a few things she’d like to tell you once she’s tended to her father.”

Hermione Apparated to the outskirts of town where she had hoped would be clear of people. Unfortunately, the small clearing held a group of natives readying their carts of goods to sell at the market square.

Aside from quick glances in her direction, not one of them said a thing until a woman pointed at her and exclaimed in French, “I knew it!” and then laughed.

It was then when Hermione recognized the woman as the one she traded peanut butter for herbs with all those months ago.

“Ilvermony?” she inquired, excited.

Jaw dropping at his question, Hermione dumbly shook her head. “N-No,” she stuttered while touching her chest. “Hogwarts.”

“Mah,” she noised in dismissive revulsion and then called her something in French that was a loose translation for colonizer.

And with that, all of them turned their backs on her and pretended she wasn’t even there.

Sparing them a curious glance over her shoulder and tucking away her wand under her sleeve, Hermione charged out of the clearing onto a trodden pathway. Expectedly, the town was in a bustling state, and she ignored the stares from everyone. 

Ever since she and John returned married from Williamsburg married when Michael Lynch and his cousins didn't, there was much talk and finger-pointing in their direction. Michael Lynch was alive, yes, and accounted for. He managed to scrape though the legal system relatively unscathed but was exiled back to Georgia for ten years. 

His cousins, on the other hand, escaped from their jail cell and apparently vacated the colony. In their stead were three squealing pigs. The sheriff brought them to the celebratory dinner at Buckley's governor's estate to tell them what the Lynch cousins left behind when they skedaddled.

Currently, three male swine resided in their quaint muddy stye on the Mount Josiah plantation. If it had been up to Caroline, they would've been slaughtered months ago, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to okay their death sentences just yet. On top of that, feeding the Lynches to anyone she knew seemed like a ghastly thing to do. Before leaving for Alexandria, she had planned to set them free and allow nature to seal their fate.

Pausing outside River Inn, Hermione’s heart pounded. Her father was in there, and her chin trembled. Afraid.

She was afraid— terrified— that it was all a trick. That it wasn’t real. Dean hadn’t really come to her, and this was all a dream.

She pinched herself and then nodded. Trudging into the establishment, she sought out the barkeep through the numerous, odorous patrons. 

“Splendid afternoon, good sir,” she greeted. The barkeep was young. Perhaps in his twenties. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” he said, smirking widely. “You’re that Lady John that lives up at Mount Josiah. The one the folks are calling a witch.”

Ah, yes. The Lynch matron, the mother of the pigs and the aunt of Michael had been announcing to anyone who'd listen that Lady John was a treacherous bride of Satan.

Extracting her coin purse from a self-sewn pocket in her dress, Hermione placed a single pound sterling on the bar. She was in no mood to faff about with this man. “A gentleman is currently boarding here, and I need to find him immediately. I understand he is injured and in need of medicine. I’m here to help.”

The man nodded, eager, and swiped at the coin. “The man’s upstairs, room fourteen, but he already has a healer tending to him. Bloody odd one, he is. Had all kinds of curious trinkets on ‘em.”

Panic hit her in the chest. Images of mercury-feeding, bloodletting, enemas, and filthy butcher tools bombarded her. “Oh, God!”

Cradling her belly, she sprinted upstairs to the second level and collided with a solid barrier. Akin to a bouncy ball hitting a stone wall, she rebounded and nearly fell backwards down the staircase but was swiftly yanked to safety by none other than Jamie Fraser.

“Jesus Christ!” She rubbed her chest, her heart thumping violently against the bone. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He looked her up and down in an assessing manner and then behind her. “Are you here by yourself, lass?”

“I am.” She shook her head, stepping around him. “Look, I don’t know what your business here is, and John didn’t mention you were coming. There’s no reason to stay here at the inn. You’ll be accommodated at Mount Josiah.”

“We received your letters.”

“Oh?” she said, glancing at the numbers on the door and determining her father must be at the end of the hallway. “That’s good. It’s quite odd really that you’re here now. I was planning on departing to Alexandria very early tomorrow morning. I think I wrote I’d be sailing directly to Scotland to catch the summer solstice at Craigh na Dun.”

“Aye, that ye did.” He casually strode beside her as she hastily pitter-pattered with her shorter gait. “Ian told us ye were ill, and ye wrote as such. Ye appear to be in the right sorts now.”

“I wrote that I would be fine, and I am.”

“But wee Ian brought news that ye dinna seem fit to write down.”

“I couldn’t possibly bore you and Claire to death with all the irrelevant goings-on at Mount Josiah, Mr. Fraser.”

“Ooch, yes.” Jamie stalled coming to a stop in front of her. “Marrying John is, by all means, irrelevant.”

Hermione chuckled. Of course, it had been impossible to hide those plain giveaways from Ian when he visited. There was no escaping that pretentious portrait in the dining hall Hal and Minnie commissioned in John’s name.

“It was a matter of necessity. You may’ve been right about what you said concerning my face. A Lynch took great interest in it and decided I must be his wife. To make a short story even shorter, John and I agreed to a matrimonial farse as a way of protection.”

“Ye’re lying,” he accused.

She rolled her eyes. “Only a little, but it hardly matters. Now please move. I’m here to see someone dear to me who travelled a long way."

Jamie’s didn’t budge. “Did you kill Stephen Bonnet, lass?”

Hermione frowned up at him. “Yes. If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll show you how I did it.”

His shock was just enough for her dart around him, and she jogged the rest of the way to room fourteen.

Claire sprung up from her chair when Hermione barreled through the door and bolted it.

“ Oh!”  exclaimed Claire, blinking to accommodate the differences between the Hermione in October and the glowing woman currently in front of her. Gone were the men’s breeks and masculine rider’s frock. Hermione wore a pale blue, Rococo style dress fit for a lady of status, and a matching bonnet which she promptly removed and set it down on the dresser. The unruly, unwashed mane that once hung heavy down her back was secured by ribbons and an elegant ivory comb in a glossy crown braid. Icy blue amethysts dangled from her ears.

Cheeks that had been angular, on the brink of hollowness, were rosy and soft. The small bosom she once sported had blossomed to a womanly swell at the bustline of her bodice.

Ian had painted a picture of a sickly, thin woman on the brink of death. What Claire saw before her was a healthy and robust, bright-eyed girl who had fallen into a delicate, but no less perilous condition.

“Daddy!” Hermione cried, running to Daniel Granger’s side. Her lace-gloved hands hovered over his unconscious form, her eyes taking in the damage. Daniel Granger wore no sark, and a blanket was draped halfway up his torso.

“I know he’s quite a sight right now, but he will heal, Hermione,” Claire assured, attempting to keep her tone neutral.

“Thank you for caring for him.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she placed a hand on his forehead.

“The fever will pass,” assured Claire.

Hermione nodded, petting her father’s hair, and then cheeks and jaw. “I can’t believe he’s here. I can’t believe I’m touching him. I…oh, my God. How? Why? ”

“I’m curious to know, as well. The why is obvious.”

She burrowed her face in the crook of his shoulder. “What were you thinking, Daddy? How could you leave Mum and the twins?”

“I’ve given him a large amount of laudanum. He won’t wake for a little while, but Hermione…” Claire’s white hands were up in placation, long fingers spread. Her yellow eyes were staring at Hermione’s middle who then turned from her gaze. “Please tell me what I’m seeing is merely a figment of fabric and folds.”

Hermione lifted her head to kiss Granger’s stubbled cheek, giving Claire flashbacks to when Brianna would do the same to Frank. “You know…I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father this unshaven.”

“Talk to me, Hermione. What happened? Who’s the father? Have you been examined at all—”

Hermione sighed, casting her a dour look. “I appreciate that you’ve treated him, Claire. I really do, but I’d like to be alone with him. Could you please—”

Claire made no move to leave. “Not until you and I have a discussion, young lady.”

The younger woman’s eyes flashed, and she stood up from her father’s side. “In case it escaped your attention, my father is here. I don’t think it will be hard for you to imagine the distance he’s come to get here and the danger he has put himself in by doing so. He’s bloody and broken, and the first thing I want him to see when he wakes up is me and only me. Your questions and examinations, however well-intended, can and will wait. I demand to be alone with him and will drag you out of this room by your hair if I must, and don’t believe for a bloody second I can’t.”

Claire was rather used to theatrical monologues from her patients’ family members. Lord knew she got a daily earful while as a woman doctor.

“So you are pregnant,” she stated, her voice hollow. “Is that why you and John married? To avoid the implications and struggles a swollen belly would undoubtedly bring to you. I'm not sure if I'm surprised or not that John went through with it. I will begrudgingly admit that he is the perfect gentleman. On the other hand, I figured he'd never trap himself in marrying again.”

Hermione stormed over to the ewer and basin, wetting a fresh cloth and gently draping it over her father’s forehead. “I wasn’t joking about dragging you out by your hair, Claire.”

“Did someone force you?” Claire swallowed thickly, tears burning her eyes. “It wasn’t Bonnet, was it?”

The younger woman’s head snapped up to stare at Claire’s left hand and then sat down in the chair next to her father’s bed, petting his arm. “It’d be exhausting to pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about, so I’ll be honest. I was foolish and failed to take heed of your admonishments from when we said our goodbyes. That’s all I will say for now.”

Fear and regret quickly gave way to anger, and Claire wiped an escaped tear from under her, for it was underserving of Hermione’s recklessness. 

“Oh, is that all you have to say about it?” she sputtered. “Hermione, I was worried sick when Ian told me about you. You told him and  me  in the letter that you were suffering from a parasite.”

Hermione calmly placed a hand on her stomach. “This wriggling being gave me hyperemesis gravidarum from week six to week twenty, and even now it leeches from me everything I have. What I eat and drink isn’t enough. It takes my blood and exerts my heart to fuel its own. It has stolen my body, my soul,  my sanity.  Even after it’s born, it won’t give any of those things back to me. So,  yes  Claire, I was entirely correct when claiming I’m playing host to a parasite.”

The severity and conviction of Hermione’s words had Claire cocking her head and considering them carefully. Unable to find any discredit or fault in them, she nodded in acceptance and conceded that Hermione didn’t want any of those bits and pieces the fetus sapped from her ever returned, anyway.

“You love the baby, don’t you?” asked Claire needlessly. “Despite saying you didn’t want children. Did you…at first, did you ever make attempts in ridding yourself of it?”

"That's none of your business."

Claire wrung her fingers nervously but kept her voice steady. “Since I’ll be delivering the baby, I need to know.”

“Excuse you, that is not going to happen!”

Claire planted her hands at her hips. Absolutely no one else on God’s green earth would deliver this child except for her.

“Look, I don’t know how abortions or attempts of it are handled in 2010, but it is no careless matter from when I came from, nor is it here. It was and is a seedy, unclean business that preys on downtrodden, desperate girls who thought it a better option than using a hanger when in reality, it could be just as horrific. Women will severely wound themselves. I’m not talking about death. I’m talking about the impossibility of vaginal delivery or even carrying to term. Miscarrying at this stage could prove fatal for you. I’ll skip over the ingesting of herbs and plants question and go straight for the jugular. Did you insert anything into your person that could compromise the integrity of your cervix?”

“Fuck it all, put me back to sleep,” groaned her patient from the bed.

Hermione flung herself over her father and cradled his head as if it were made by Faberge himself. “You’re awake! Daddy it’s me. It’s Hermione.” She removed the wet cloth from his head and kissed his damp brow. “I’m here, and everything is going to be all right. I’m going to heal you up fine and proper. You’ll be good as new again before you know it.”

Claire frowned at Hermione. “He has weeks of recovery. He won’t feel like himself for at least three months.”

Daniel Granger groaned. “My baby,” he said, tears leaking out of the side of his scrunched eyes.

Hermione dabbed at his tears and stroked his hair, regarding Claire like she was a pesky, fat fly who wouldn't stop buzzing around her face and landing on her nose.

Several seconds ticked by and then Hermione stood up and pulled a long piece of polished wood from the sleeve of her dress.

“What is that?”

“Do you believe in witches?”

Claire mulled over Hermione’s inquiry and the significance of the stick in her hand.

Images of Geillis, a few good but mostly bad, resurfaced in Claire’s mind. Memories of Raymond in Paris and the blue light in his hands. Conversations she’s had with wise women of neighboring tribes who spoke of omens and saw things commonfolk could not.

“I…I think I believe in magic of sorts,” Claire admitted cautiously. “As for witches…what exactly do you mean by that, and what is that in your hand?”

“A wand,” she said. “Made of vine wood and something else I dare not tell you just yet. Ridiculous as it may sound, it’s true. This aids me in safely channeling my magic outwards. Without it, my abilities vary.”

Flicking her wrist, the curtains closed by themselves. Claire gasped and covered her mouth, both amazed and scared. Dimness soaked the room for a moment before a magnificently bright bulbous light—fluorescently white—erupted from the tip of the wand. The glorious, ignited ball popped off from its stem and floated above them and stuck to the ceiling followed by two others. Within moments, the room was bathed in a type of inorganic brightness Claire hadn’t seen since her days at the hospital.

“I’m not a surgeon or any kind of doctor,” clipped Hermione, tapping the tip of her wand to her father’s brow. The creases there disappeared, and his body slackened into the mattress. “But I have had some healer training. The profession I had before I came here required it. I think I can heal my father completely, but I need to make sure.”

Hermione waved her wand over her father’s body, and a vibrant, vaporous blue shape mimicking his prone figure bloomed out of his chest.

Claire felt the need to sit down but settled for standing flat against the wall.

“Blue?” Hermione questioned, eyebrows knitting together. “It’s supposed to be lime green.”

The young woman tapped her chin, bending down to inspect the vaporous blue mist over her father’s body.

“I’m performing a thorough diagnostic spell,” explained Hermione, sighing. “I wouldn’t bother, typically. Since he’s my father and there’s not a proper healer around—no offense—I don’t want to miss something.”

“Diagnostic spell,” Claire whispered, blinking. “Naturally. And it diagnoses?”

“Superficially,” Hermione answered and rotated her wand.

The swirling mass of blue vapors dispersed from Granger’s body and took shape, forming into a wondrous cast of a male's human anatomy in a vertical position against the north wall. The anatomical shadow housed bones, muscles, organs, arteries, and veins. They were differentiated in various hues of blue.

Enchanted, Claire pushed off from the wall and reached her hand out to eagerly investigate. Her hand touched what represented Daniel Granger’s beating heart, and the sound of thumping filled the room.

Claire listened intently despite having already discovered the man’s arrythmia not long after she started treating him for his injuries.

“His heart is not in rhythm,” Claire said softly. “He’ll need a cardioversion when he returns home.”

Hermione wriggled her wrist, and a translucent chart appeared depicting vitals. “His blood pressure is high. One forty-five over ninety. His cervicalgia looks to have worsened. Rib seven and eight are broken. No evidence of the left lung being punctured which is ideal. Pulmonary is a tricky business and beyond my expertise. Bruised liver and kidney. The frontal process is cracked as is the anterior nasal spine. Slight dislocation of the mandible. Two of his molars on the left side are loose. Fractured carpal.”

Hermione folded her her arms, jaw set in fury. “I had my suspicions, but now I know for sure. Someone did this to him.”

“I assumed as much, too,” agreed Claire, avoiding her eye contact.

“Do you have any idea who?”

“I’m sorry to say he was like this when Jamie and I came to the inn.”

Hermione’s piercing brown eyes stabbed her in the face. Claire struggled to cloud her glass features in a state of sympathy and genuine confusion.

“You’re lying,” the younger woman accused. “I don’t know why your husband did this—”

“Jamie didn’t—”

“That's shit if I've ever heard it!” Hermione spat. “You will leave my father’s room now. Go to your husband an take him downstairs. When I’m finished here, I’ll join you. He and I will talk. If he tries to hide from me or evade me in any way—which I don’t think he will because he’s not a coward—I won’t give him the benefit of doubt."

“You will  not  hurt my husband,” Claire seethed. “It was misunderstanding. Your father…he looks like a man Jamie and I knew a long time ago. I…I told you a little bit about Jack Randall, didn’t I?”

Hermione curled her lips. “I remember you saying he was the first man you came across when coming through Craigh na Dun and looked eerily like your late husband. You told me he was a lunatic, a rapist, and sadist. A generally evil and despicable monster. You never went into detail, and this isn’t an invitation to do so now.”

“Well, your father, like or not, resembles both Jack Randall and Frank a great deal.” Claire sighed and twisted her arm out of Hermione’s grasp. “Don’t tell my husband this, but when I first saw your father, I wasn’t scared. For a split second, I was…almost happy. I never got to tell you that when Frank died, we were at the lowest point in our marriage. He wanted a divorce, planned to move back to England, remarry, and take Brianna with him. As miserable as I, it wasn’t because of him, and I was frightened to have him go and take our daughter. She would’ve happily gone with him, I knew, though I didn’t want to admit it at the time.

“And I hated… I hated  he found someone else. I know it’s not fair of me to say since he felt the same about me with Jamie. In turn, I allowed Frank an arrangement, but I was never supposed to know any detail about her, and he was always supposed to come home to me and Brianna. All of that came crashing down and before I even had time to accept it, he was gone. He died thinking I hated and resented him. Seeing your father made me believe for millisecond that I could ask Frank for forgiveness and give it, as well.”

Hermione stared at her for a long time before turning away to further examine her father’s blueprint.

“Draco was tall, blond, and incredibly handsome. As you recall, he tried to kill me. You might be surprised how many men I’ve come across here in the colonies that resemble him in one way or another. But not once did I think any of them were actually him and tried hurting them before they hurt me.”

Claire wanted to argue with Hermione. Daniel Granger’s likeness to Frank and Jack Randall wasn’t causal resemblance. If all three of them stood together in a crowded room, everyone would think them triplets.

Alas, her curiosity gave way to empathy on Hermione’s behalf, and the harsh reality of the situation settled into place. Claire badly wanted to watch Hermione magically heal her father but felt unworthy to see it. She had lied to hide what her husband had done and then attempted to justify it when at the end of the day, an innocent man searching for his daughter had nearly perished at the hands of a brute.

It made no difference to Hermione that Claire loved that brute.

Claire exited the room, hoping to find the hallway devoid of people, even Jamie, but was sorely disappointed when finding him, John Grey, and Dean Thomas loitering nearby.

Jamie and John quietly spoke in hushed tones, though their dialogue seemed heated. Thomas stood off to the side wearing a worried expression.

Claire was about to interrupt the undoubtedly titillating conversation to tell Jamie how livid Hermione was about her father, but the words died on her tongue when her husband roared out, "Ye damned her to death, ye fucking wee pervert," before punching John solidly in the stomach.

The man expectedly doubled over and crumpled to the floor.

Claire flung her arms up exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake, James Fraser!”

Chapter Text

The cooling stasis charm faded over her father’s unconscious form. The chilliness of the spell helped the overall swelling after Hermione had realigned his broken bones but couldn’t eliminate the puffiness completely. The tender purplish flesh was still visible. The broken skin over his nose and mouth couldn’t be thoroughly healed in a timely manner without the use of essence of murtlap. As for his internal injuries, she’d done her best by use of the odd blue light her wand expelled. Nonetheless, a nip of Wiggenweld or a vial generic healing potion would be nice.

After spending a minute contemplating the cause of the peeling pink skin on her father’s chest, Hermione concluded he must've passed through standing stones. Oddly though, the burns were surprisingly fresh. Perhaps a couple of weeks old as opposed to a couple of months. Now the question was, which set did he go through? Did he pass through the Dominican Republic as she had or Craigh na Dun?

Like internal injuries, burns benefited better from potions and salves rather than wand-work. Hermione observed the trunk located at the foot of the spare bed and noticed it possessed a mediocre warding spell meant to deter Muggles. Surely Dean wouldn’t have come to this time without any kind of modern or magical medicine.

Unravelling the charm, she lifted the lid of the trunk and discovered an impressive expansion spell. A sturdy wooden ladder descended into the depths of the trunk. Lamps on hooks littered the sloped interior all the way down, perhaps twelve feet, igniting a way to an undoubtedly impressive and illegal place designed by Dean Thomas.

Within her reach were a few bags dangling on hooks, too, and one of them was a stuffed battered backpack. Unzipping it, she dumped the contents onto the spare bed and out came a clunky first aid kit, a Swiss army knife, a flashlight, matches, and a large canteen that was ice cold to the touch.

Curious, Hermione unscrewed the cap of the canteen and sniffed.

Ah, yes! A strong brew of the Healing Potion.

Stealing an experimental sip, she curled her lips. The mildly sweet and tart flavors of the raspberry and lime additives did little to mask the unfortunate acridity of Bubotuber pus and the metallic taste of dragon liver.

Pouring a modest amount into the lid of the canteen, Hermione carefully finagled the liquid down her father’s gullet without him choking or spitting it back up.   

Stowing away the canteen, she opened the first aid kit and was pleased to find a treasure trove of both magical and muggle medicinal delights: essence of murtlap, essence of dittany, Pepper-Up concentrate, Blood Replenishing potion,  hand sanitizer, anti-bacterial soap, disposable gloves, sewing kit, water purification tablets, peroxide, cotton balls, a half-used tube of lidocaine cream, band-aids, bandages, antiseptic, ibuprofen, hydrocodone, and a stuffed plastic baggie marked "used".

“Given that your chest looks as it does and the state of the lidocaine cream, I assume you declined the essence of dittany and the canteen.” Removing her lace gloves, she magicked her hands clean and using hand sanitizer before pulling on the powdery examination gloves. “I am your adult daughter and you’re unconscious, therefore, in no state of mind to make any medical decision. I must act in your best interest.”

Grabbing the essence of dittany vile, Hermione filled the pipette and squeezed out several droplets over her father’s torso, lips, nose, and fingers. Following that, she dabbed essence of murtlap under his eyes.

Over the next several minutes as he visibly healed in front of her, Hermione monitored his vitals. As she watched his blood pressure decrease, she couldn’t help but notice the significant amount of weight he acquired since she last saw him, most of it in muscle.

“What’ve you been doing? Training for a superhero film?” Removing the gloves, she shoved them in the “used” baggie in the first aid kit.

“Finite incantatum,” she announced.

The balls of light on the ceiling diminished into nothing. Parting the drapes, she opened the window to let in some fresh air and the afternoon sun. The air was warm and breezy, smelling of wet earth and horseshit. Sounds of the bustling street filtered into the room consisting of trotting horses, the latest town gossip, and the enthralling persuasions of loud-mouthed charlatans selling snake oil.

She hoped Dean and John would be there soon. She needed to speak to John and saw little point in further hiding the truth from him, given that her father and Dean were here. Their presence would provide evidence of her circumstance as well an explanation on why she must return to her time.

A part of her worried John wouldn’t come. What if her departure from the parlor frightened him so terribly, he wanted nothing more to do with her, and she was no longer welcome at Mount Josiah? What if he went running to his brother and Willie shouting his wife was a witch?

“No, he wouldn't do that,” she said to herself, wiggling her hands and fingers back into the lacy gloves. “He'll come. Even if it’s not for my sake.”

Storming across the street towards the apothecary, Hermione saw the tidy ginger queue of Jamie Fraser. The man must’ve felt her hellish glare, for he stopped and whirled around to stare directly up at her, and he looked so ever much like Willie in the moment.

Lifting her hand as if to wave, Hermione instead showed him her middle finger and thumb.

His slanted blue eyes widened, and he shouted something profane at her in Gaelic which only caused her other hand to join in the fun, a grin forming on her face.

“Hermione Jean Granger, we went over this when you were six years old. We do not do that in our family.”

She whipped around and hid her hands behind her back, gasping. Her father was up and sitting on the side of the bed, frowning at her disapprovingly. She ran to him and fell to her knees, tears flowing down her cheeks.

She sobbed furiously, clutching her hands into fist sand slamming them on the mattress. “What are you doing here? What were you thinking?”

Daniel Hugo Granger cupped her face and kissed her forehead, sopped cheeks, and then nose before enveloping her in an embrace. She sunk into it, her arms tightening around him.

“I’m missed you so much,” he murmured into her hair.

She pulled away and shook her head at him. “Don’t you dare. I…I can’t even…Daddy, don’t you realize how dangerous it is here?”

“I wasn’t going to sit idly and risk you not making it home, Hermione." His brows knitted together, and he inspected his torso while also prodding is face. "What…What happened? I got hurt, I think. I’m certain my nose was broken.”

Hermione sat down on the mattress beside him. “Do you remember what happened?”

Her father scratched his bearded jawline. “I can’t say I do. One moment, Dean and I were going over the directions to get to Mount Josiah. The next thing I know, nothing but pain all over.”

“I healed you with magic and potions,” Hermione said loftily, rising to sit on the chair facing him and ignoring his displeased expression. “You were attacked by a man who lost ahold of his sensibilities and thought you were someone else who inflicted great damage on him and his wife a long time ago. Apparently, you look like this person. Mind, this person died over twenty years ago.”

“Oh,” he said quietly and then resolutely smacked her with a stern look, and she quite felt like she was eight years old again about to be lectured on how not to deal with mean bullies at primary school. “Sweetheart, do not seek retaliation.”

“Daddy—”

“I mean it. This was an honest mistake.”

“That arsehole could’ve killed you—”

“And he didn’t. I’m alive. I’m well, and I would’ve done the same if I saw someone who I believed was Draco. I can’t fault a man when I am also that man, Hermione.”

“You are not,” she stated vehemently. “You would never—”

“A man thinks he wouldn't until he does.” He thumbed a tear from under her eye. “Losing his child at the hands of a person who made vows to love, honor, and protect her can change him.”

Her breath caught in her throat at the mention of Draco. “I’ve wondered. Is he…?”

“Draco is in prison and safely tucked away from me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, relieved that Draco was imprisoned and hadn’t somehow made his way into another era of time.

“His mother?” she inquired, wincing. “Has she made herself a nuisance to you and Mum?”

“She probably would have if hadn’t been for Blaise. He's gone to great lengths in keeping us off her radar.”

“Thank God.”

Her father pinched her chin and then tapped her nose for good measure. “I know he was Draco’s friend first, but you play your cards right, I’m sure you’ll get full custody of him in the divorce.”

Jarred by his joke, her unprepared chuckling came out nervous and hoarse. “I doubt I’ll have to play too hard with Draco behind bars and all that.”

“True.” Their hands clasped together, and he smiled oddly at her lace gloves and then at her dress. “Look at you, sweetheart. You are so lovely and brilliant. You’ve done well for yourself here. You adapted marvelously.  We—everyone back home and I—had to do quite a bit of research to find you. With the help of our thinking-caps, we were able to discover that you found work as a governess.”

Apprehensive in the direction the conversation was going, Hermione swallowed. “I can’t think that’s all you found.”

“Everything else didn’t matter,” he said, his words quick and firm. “It doesn’t matter. None of this has to matter. We’ll go home, and we’ll all find a new normal. Your mother and I moved to Virginia. It’ll be a fresh start for you, too, while you’re going through the divorce. You can stay there instead of having to go back to the manor.”

“That divorce isn’t going to happen as fast as you think it will. It’s not as simple as paper-signings. I told you Draco was already in an arranged marriage when he and I eloped.”

Daniel Granger nodded, his lips pressing into a grumpy line, undoubtedly thinking life would've been better for everyone if his son-in-law married his initial betrothed.

“A part of that arrangement included a contract devised by Draco’s father. Despite that arrangement never coming to fruition, the contract remained and was intertwined with Draco’s inheritance. You recall Draco was temporarily cut off financially when he and I married. As you know, they eventually accepted us, and that ubiquitous contract was modified.

“Traditional pureblood ceremonies are lifetime bonds.” Hermione touched Draco’s ring hidden by her glove. “His ring is a family heirloom which represents our vows, and it won’t come off. Lucius Malfoy, who may’ve never won any Father of the Year awards, did care about his son’s happiness to an extent. Should Draco need an out, he could get one. Therefore, he inserted the contract—which I agreed to sign, so Draco could get his inheritance. The contract acts more like a series of clauses capable of breaking the marital bond between the couple. Those clauses are essentially requirements that must be fulfilled by both husband and wife.

“Now because Draco and I filed for a marriage license through the ministry on top of that bond, a divorce decrement must be petitioned, assessed, finalized through the Wizengamot, and signed by the Minister of Magic. If you haven’t already gathered, it’s rare when witches and wizards seek divorces, and it’s nigh impossible for Purebloods to even do so. If they really can't stand one another, they’ll simply proceed in life by living separately.”

“Those are,” Daniel Granger cleared his voice, “a lot of steps, but do remember how long divorces can go on outside the world of magic. They take years, Hermione, and your mother and I will be with you every step of the way.”

Hermione snorted bitterly. “Time isn't a concern. You don’t know what the requirements are. There are specifically two that can and will halt the entire process, one of them being Draco agreeing to the whole thing. You may think that’ll be easy because of what he did, but it won't be. He won't let me go without a fight. As for the other obstacle, I best wait in telling you."

“Tell me. Talk to me, darling,” her father urged.

She shook her head, thinking it an inconvenient time for him to suffer a stroke. “We have more immediate things to worry about just now.” She clasped ahold of his hands again and swung their arms. “Like how I’m going to be having a baby.”

Her father stared at her for a long moment before dropping his head. He inhaled deeply and spoke in a carefully constructed tone. “All right. That’s all right.”

“Is it?” she doubted aloud. “Because I keep telling myself that, hoping I’ll believe it, but then I remember I’ve made an utter mess of things—”

“You didn’t—”

“I did. I got attached to people here.”

“It’d be impossible not to. All ghosts were once people.”

“Yes, but they’re not ghosts now. They’re real, and I have to leave them. I even saved and planned my departure already. I was going to sail from Alexandria in a couple of days, but I knew these people would be angry with me and try to find me for the rest of their lives. John.” She nibbled on her bottom lip, imagining him and how he’d scour the entire world trying to find her and the baby. If it was just her, he may give up after a while and let go. He was resilient that way, but he wouldn’t give up on their child. “He’s not going to be all right with me leaving—”

“John?”

Her cheeks burned in both shame and grief, and she avoided her father’s increasingly displeased expression. “I fell in love. I-I sort of got married.”

Daniel let go of her hands, her heart dropping as he reached for his cellphone.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she pressed as he busied himself with the device. “And I can’t believe you brought that with you. How is it even still alive?”

He scrolled through his gallery. “Solar charging. It’s in the beginning phases and costs a small fortune, but it works. I brought it along, so I could show you this.” He lifted the Samsung Galaxy to her face. On the screen was a picture of a computer monitor displaying a black and white tattered piece of parchment, the contents familiar. “I took a picture of this months ago. I didn’t want to believe it was you. That’s not your name, but it’s your penmanship, albeit a pretentious version, isn’t it?”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “That’s my…Are you telling me my marriage license is on the bloody internet?”

Her father’s smirk was rueful. “Among other things. I understand why you went through with it. It’s a dangerous time and place to be a pretty, young girl. What I’d like to know is what exactly you signed and how you got away with it.”

Hermione, still gaping at the small picture, shrugged one shoulder. “Harmony Fanet Christie Grey. I wanted to push the limits by making the license iffy. If John should ever want to remarry after my leaving, he could simply claim the license wasn't valid and go into a new union untethered by me or the law. The governor and minister had a difficult time pronouncing Hermione Jeanette Christakos, anyway—”

“Jeanette Christakos?” Daniel arched his brows.

“I thought taking Grand-mère’s full name for my middle and Mum’s maiden name would further distance me from anyone who are now in England. Most of the Grangers there or here in the Colonies are known to both gentry and commoners, and our Le Granges haven’t left France yet. I thought it safer posing as a Greek citizen.”

“I see,” he said. “And this John Grey fellow. He didn’t challenge you on it?”

Hermione shook her head. “He was mildly annoyed, but the marriage was essentially forced. Neither one of us wanted to be there. Myself, for obvious reasons. I’m already married.”

“I see,” her father repeated in a way that made her anxious. “This man John Grey. He’s the one that did this to you. Got you into this pregnant predicament. And you’re telling me he didn’t feel it necessary to do right by you. Did he think he could do better?”

She searched for the right words since she was not going to discuss John Grey’s sexual orientation struggles with her father. “He was widowed not very long ago and still in mourning—”

“Ah, yes. In mourning, I see. Tell me, was he mourning his late wife when he carried you off to bed?”

Surely her father couldn’t know how accurate that accusation was. "Do we have to talk about this right now? Or ever for that matter?"

Daniel gestured helplessly. “Don’t think I’m angry with you, Button. Of course, I’m not. I’m just trying to understand why this imbecile wouldn’t want to marry you when those two other idiots begged for my blessing to do so.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“I’mnotdoinganything.”

“And you know what makes it worse when you act this way? Mum encourages this archaic, overprotective nonsense. She thinks it’s cute—”

“Overprotective? Archaic? Me? When men like your Grandpa Basil are still alive? Forget a blessing. I had to ask bloody permission and make an offering.”

“Here we go,” muttered Hermione, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“That sodding bastard insisted I offer five goats for your mum. Five. It was the fucking 1970s not the 1870s. The audacity of him. He and your blessed Granny lived in Brighton, for Christ’s sake. What the bloody hell was he going to do with five goats? But he asked that of me because he thought I couldn’t do it. Well, guess what? I showed him. I—”

“Gave him ten!” Hermione hopped to her feet. “I know the story. Shall I remind you of a similar story where you baited Draco with your blessing for our union in exchange for a unicorn?”

Her father turned puce and stormed over to his trunk at the end of his bed to rummage through it. “I didn’t know unicorns were real.”

“The point is…Draco delivered and still you wouldn’t relent."

Daniel found a starchy, clean sark and forced his head and torso through it. “He’s a bad man, and your mother and I knew it then. You married him anyway, and your mother—my wife—didn’t get out of—”

“Bed for a month. I remember,” finished Hermione, sighing tiredly and feeling like a thirty-day nap didn’t sound like an outrageously overdramatic display of distress. The heat of the room began to register, and beads of sweat broke out around her hairline. Her lower back ached as did her legs and feet. “I don’t want to fight, Daddy. We just found each other. If anything, we should be celebrating, and…and you’re going to be a grandpa.”

A cheap and dodgy move on her part, but reminding him of the baby worked. The tension dispelled from Daniel Granger’s shoulders and instead of violently buttoning his vest, he did so coolly.

“I am behaving rather like an arse,” he glumly admitted. “Your mother would be most upset with me if she were here.”

Hermione interlaced her fingers and cradled them below her belly, drawing attention to the mound. “If it’s any consolation, she’d be displeased with me, too. It’s perfectly arguable that I’m a bigamist or that I’m not actually married to John at all, and yet I’m pregnant. Take your pick on which one she’ll vent to Father Doukas about.”

Daniel pulled on his stockings, and Hermione studied them and then the shirt, breeks, and the boots on the floor next to the bed. She reflected on the first aid-kit, and his weight-gain and muscles. He and Dean had clearly spent a great deal of time and resources readying themselves for his journey to the past.

“She confesses to Father Manos now that we are living here in Virginia. And your mother will not be unhappy about a grandbaby, Hermione. We have been begging you to give us one ever since you and Ron were engaged. I have good reason to think she’ll be besotted with her.”

She whipped her head up. “Her?”

He nodded, putting his feet into his boots and then pausing to smile wistfully at her. “I just have a feeling.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her stomach, tracing the slopes with the palms of her hands, staring out the window and reflecting on her strange and vivid dreams of the little girl who’d been starring in them. “You know, I think you’re right.”

“You do?”

She nodded, biting her lip, a rush of hormonal emotion wetting her tear ducts.

“What’s the matter?”

“I have to tell John the truth. All of it. Not just the easy parts.”

“Which part in any of this is easy?”

“I was just going to sneak away, but then Dean showed up with my wand, and told me you were here. I felt confident that I could tell John. I had some of the proof and also a valid, tangible reason why I must leave...excuse me. I'm sorry. What do you think you are doing?"

Her father looped a leather belt around his hips, a holstered pistol attached to it. “Hm?"

"Absolutely not. I won't allow it."

“It’s all right. It’s perfectly normal.”

“Have you lost your mind?” she screeched.

Unhelpfully, her father retrieved another weapon from his trunk, this one a spiffy, sheathed cutlass. “I surpassed the appropriate courses in handling both of these items. I came prepared, sweetheart, that’s all. On top of that, it would’ve been unwise travelling here without these types of weapons.”

He wasn’t wrong, but seeing a gun attached to her father’s person made her queasy. “You’re an English dentist from the second millennium, not a navy surgeon on one of His Majesty’s hulls. Have you had to use them?”

Her father’s silence said it all.

“Oh, no, Daddy.” She covered her mouth.

“It wasn’t me.” Daniel donning the cutlass. “I froze. Dean, he was the one that…”

The crushing, poisonous weight dissipated off her chest. Dean was an Auror, Like her, he was used to handling the unsavory aspects of ensuring a criminal never again received the opportunity to harm others. “I-If you’re not ready to tell me.”

He closed his eyes and massaging it his chin. “Hermione, I must tell you about the standing stones here in American. It’s how Dean and I came through. They’re in North Carolina at Ocracoke Island. It took us less than two weeks to get here.”

An unattractive, strangled sound dropped out of her gaping mouth. "There's a portal here in America?"

"Yes."

"A colony south from here?"

Her father stared at her meaningfully. "A state south, Hermione."

She blinked at the correction and then nodded. "Sorry, I guess I've been here too long, but this is amazing. I thought I’d would have to sail to Scotland or Jamaica." She held up her wand triumphantly. "We could Apparate—"

"No! Nope! Absolutely not," her father clipped, waving his hand as if to decapitate the idea. "Dean and I walked the entire way here for a reason."

"It’s really not as wretched as you think it is," she blatantly fibbed.

"It's unsafe! He told me the risks. I told him no, and he respected that. I'd rather not have my body parts strewn out between two states, thanks ever so much, darling. Besides, you are pregnant. That twisting about through space and time can't be safe for the baby."

Hermione worried her bottom lip, considering her belly. Feeling high from reuniting with her wand and hearing about her father’s arrival and injuries, she carelessly apparated to the outskirts of town from Mount Josiah. It probably wasn't a great idea to Apparate after five months, and she was in her sixth. Ginny and Pansy had stopped Apparition altogether by the end of their first trimesters.

So far, the baby hadn't disclosed her ire by making Hermione ill or crampy. 

"I'm not sure how much you know about the workings of the stones," her father said. “Did Draco ever mention anything?"

"I’ve come to know a little." She raised her head, deciding it wasn't the best time to talk about Claire Fraser and her epic tale of terrible choices. " I assume you do, too, since you're here and on purpose."

"Ironically enough, I've become well acquainted with the mysticism surrounding them." He went to the window and stared outside, his expression one of both intrigue and anxiety. "Did you know the portable is only penetrable during certain parts of the year?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know we must leave in time to make the summer equinox. When is the baby due?"

Unable to help herself, Hermione smiled down at her bump. The grin was short-lived and dissolved into a glowering pout as she watched her father expertly disassemble his flintlock. "In July. The third or fourth week.”

He nodded and then pulled a stained cloth from the pocket of his trousers, lovingly polishing the muzzle. “I'm not particularly fond of these, either, but you have to know by now that it's necessary. Dean and I were especially glad we came prepared. Three days into our traveling, we came across a scene where history became too real. I'm sure you've seen your own fair share of horror since you've been here. My God, I know you were in Jamaica. You must've seen those that came straight from Africa.”

The Jamaican ports and the market square were heinous. Reading history books, watching documentaries, and viewing award-winning films about the African slave-trade versus seeing the diabolical piece of history with her own eyes were incomparable. The differences were stark. Like explaining the damaging and harmful effects of a raging fire to someone who has only known the sweaty warmth of summer.

“I'm so sorry you had to encounter anything so horrible. We don't have to talk about it just now.” Hermione’s heart broke despite knowing he wasn’t a stranger to humanity’s wickedness. His time serving in an Ethiopian refugee camp thoroughly acquainted him with a kind of evil he had never seen, even in the most distasteful parts of England.

Dr. Daniel H. Granger, however, would argue that those refugee camps were where he witnessed the purest of good, too, in his fellow doctors and the downtrodden who’d been stripped of all they held dear.

“I have with Dean, obviously,” her father replied. “I will have to with your mother when we get home. Dean says I mustn’t let it fester. He’s the epitome of a well-adjusted person. Even when he chose to be the one to pull the trigger. He was ever so calm afterwards. Clear-minded but not without regret. He needed a comforting hug, so I gave him one.”

“I’m glad you were there for each other. But I’m certain he self-medicates.”

“He does and I, myself, may’ve dabbled in a sip or two of what he offered. Sublime stuff in the short-term, that Calming Draught.”

Her brows reached for her hairline. “You drank it?”

“After that particular incident, yes. He offered that or joint of marijuana, but I did promise your mother in 1976 that I would never again partake for recreational purposes.”

She patted him on his sleeve. “I would’ve kept your secret from Mum if you had.”

“I think there are enough secrets in our family, Hermione, and there sure as hell are enough lies.”

Her father’s knowing stare beating down on her forced her to say in a small, high-pitched voice, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s what I thought. Let us start with the that time-travelling trinket your mother and I told you no to. And, yes, let us not forget about the permission slip to that Hogsmeade town, hm? Your mother and I perfectly recall not signing it because you were behaving irrationally.”

Her gaze snapped up, jaw falling open in absolute shock. “What?”

“A conversation I had with Harry led me to find out—”

"Harry didn’t know shit!”

Daniel Granger lifted his hands in placation. “I know it happened years ago and shouldn’t be upset. I’m not sore about the trickery, though I did expect better from you. I’m unhappy that you kept those things hidden from me and your mother when you got older.”

Hermione huffed, still reeling from the abrupt turn of conversation. “Honestly, I haven’t thought about it in years.”

In the spectrum of things, successfully forging her parents’ signatures to obtain the Time-Turner and to secure trips to Hogsmeade were misdemeanors. Insignificant dribbles overcrowded by her vast sea of felonies.

Her father raised a finger at her. “You will. You’ll think about all those unsafe shenanigans and reckless tomfoolery when my grandbaby goes off to Hogwarts. You’ll think she’s safe and making you proud by getting good marks and finally developing kindness to the dimwitted. In reality, you get to be me. You get to be your mother. Completely unaware of your offspring’s true nature.”

Her gut twisted at the picture he was painting. “Don’t.”

“I must. It’s my duty as an impending grandfather to tell you—”

“More like curse me!”

“—that you will have a daughter just like you.” He tapped her on the nose and then hastily embraced her as she burst into tears. She buried her head into his shoulder, and he pecked her temple. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right. You will still love her more than anything. She’ll just grow up and break your heart.”

“She’ll be good,” Hermione wept. “She won’t be like me.”

“She may even run off with someone you know will hurt her.”

Her knees weakened, and she clung to her father for support. “She’ll never leave my arms. I’ll hold her forever.”

“You’ll take to bed for a while. Eventually, you will have to get out it. You’ll still feel rotten, but the world waits for no one’s sorrow.”

She flung her arms around her father’s neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Some of those things I didn’t tell you was because I wanted to protect you.”

He soothingly rubbed her back. “You’re forgiven, but sweetheart, as far as your school years go, you didn’t hide those dangerous matters from me and your mother because you wanted to protect us. You had your own self-interest at heart. You knew we would remove you from Hogwarts had we known the extent of danger you were surrounded by. Instead, you played us for the fools as you evaded holidays with us, claiming you had massive amounts of studying or the Weasleys invited you to this event or that event. I’ll put it plainly, Hermione. Being with your mother and I got in the way of your mischief.”

His accusation stung, and she had to take a moment to recover from the low blow. Alas, he wasn't wrong.

“I wanted to stay at Hogwarts and with the Weasleys to help Harry. He had a rough go at it, and you would’ve sent me off to Roedean if I told you all of what was going on. I would’ve been without my wand until I turned seventeen. It would’ve been dangerous. Suppressed magic can create terrible and unfixable problems. What if I hurt someone?”

“Your mother and I could’ve been persuaded in sending you to that magical French school or the one here in the States.”

“But my friends—”

“Were idiots. You could’ve found friends anywhere. Safer friends. Kinder friends. Friends who weren’t as high maintenance.”

“I didn’t even have any until I got to Hogwarts and even then, it was all circumstantial, and I just kind of invited myself into Ron and Harry’s friendship. They put up with it because I did half their homework.”

“You are only proving my point about their idiocy.”

“They needed me, Daddy. Harry, especially. And what’s done is done. They're family now, and you can't deny it. We see the Weasleys several times a year. The middle name of Ron’s eldest is Jean, after me. His children and Harry’s children call me auntie. Some of them are my godchildren, and I love them. I’m sorry I hid all that I did from you and Mum, but I have no regrets in doing what I thought I must to have stayed at Hogwarts.”

A cautious knock on the door sliced through the father-daughter tension. The silencing wards she put up were disbanded which meant Dean had come.

Opening the door slightly, she poked her head out and gifted Dean a nervous look. “You're alone?”

“John is downstairs,” he said. “The ride here was…interesting.”

“He came?” She grinned brightly. “I wish you would’ve brought him up. My father is healed. They can meet.”

Dean grimaced. “I did, but Claire Fraser had to tend him to ensure there wasn’t any lasting damage.”

“Whatdamage?” she squawked.

A longsuffering sigh blew out of Dean. “I don’t think it’s my place to say, but I’ll put it shortly. Mr. Fraser gave your Mr. Grey a good plow in the stomach. As to why, Mr. Fraser felt like Mr. Grey hasn’t taken adequate care of you. For further information, I suggest you speak to both parties.”

“The man who assaulted my dad decided the next best course of action was to assault the father of my child,” Hermione growled. “Unbelievable.”

Facial features scrunched in fortitude, Daniel placed himself close to her side and folded his arms. “Do not hurt Mr. Fraser, Hermione.”

“I won’t."

“Give me your wand.”

Hermione recoiled as if slapped. “No!”

Daniel jerked the door further open. “Dean, please remove my daughter’s wand from her person.”

The man burst out laughing. “You overestimate my abilities, Daniel. I could sooner defang a famished bear than expel Hermione Granger’s wand from her.”

Hermione dashed down the hallway and called over her shoulder to them. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

On the main floor, she skimmed the patrons in search of John and settled on Claire Fraser in the corner where she was speaking to him, steins of ale between them on the table’s surface.

Jamie had not yet returned from the apothecary. Hermione assumed Claire told her husband to scamper off on errands instead of instructing him to stay put and face his rebuke from a vengeful witch.

Hermione could hardly blame her since she’d do the same for John, taking his penance upon herself.

Speaking of Claire, she had the pinched look of a stern mother chastising an disobedient child whereas John wore an unrepentant and prideful countenance.

Cautiously, Hermione approached their table and touched his shoulder and then rubbed his upper back. "Sweetheart, are you all right?”

Expecting to be bombarded with questions regarding her departure from the tearoom, Hermione was shocked when he sprung from his chair and swept her in for searing kiss. Electric shivers rippled down to her toes, and warmth pooled in her lower belly. Her arms coiled around his neck. John held her close, cupping her bottom and tilting her as a gorgeous, glistening man would to his large-chested lover on the cover of a trashy romance novel.

Had they been home at Mount Josiah, she would’ve dragged him away to a secluded area to shag him silly.

Unfortunately, they weren’t at Mount Josiah but in a public setting surrounded by some of Lynchburg’s finest gossipers. Numerous men raised their beverages and hollered their approval at Mr. Grey for snagging such a fine lady despite her being a witch while others murmured how she bewitched him.

She patted John’s collar and tried to pull away, but he only followed. Against his lips, she giggled out, “My father is upstairs and expecting me to come back in a few minutes. I don’t think I should return to him looking like you had your wicked way with me—”

“I should say not,” Claire interjected crossly, glaring at John like he was a large and repugnant cockroach in need of a heavy boot.

As if someone had taken ahold of his spine and tugged, John launched backward and murmured a sheepish, “Quite, my dear.”

Claire stood up from the table and fussed with her hair. “I'd best meet him, too. I’d like to explain the circumstances concerning what happened with Jamie.”

Hermione took John’s hand, squeezing it, and led him through the crowded group of patrons imbibing heavily on meat pies and ale. Claire followed behind them. As they climbed the stairs, she looked over her shoulder at them. “I promised to explain everything, John, and I will upstairs in the privacy of my father’s room. But don’t worry about meeting him. Just be your wonderfully charming self.”

At the top of the stairwell, they paused. Hermione saw her father and Dean where she left them before turning to peck John on the lips. She then examined Claire whose pale cheeks were pinking as she shook out creases her peasant style dress. “What are you doing?”

“I’m acting ridiculous, is all.” Those long busy fingers of hers came to a forced rest at her sides, and she peered down the hallway. “My God. He looks...He's completely healed. There's not a mark on him. Hermione, how did you do it? ”

John quickly glanced at Claire, lips downturned, and whispered to Hermione, “Does he have one of those things that Mr. Thomas gave you?”

“A wand?” she mouthed back.

“Er…yes.”

“No. He’s not like Dean and me in that way.” Hermione needlessly fiddled with the tails of his cravat and smoothed the invisible wrinkles of his frock. Her hands soon found his handsome face, and she caressed his cheeks with her thumbs. Still, John warily eyed the men at the end of the hallway as Ronald Weasley would towards a mass of charging tarantulas. The confidence he sported in front of Claire had abandoned him.

“It’ll be fine,” she assured him, stowing away her doubts into the far crevices of her mind.

“The one next to Mr. Thomas. That’s him. That’s your father?” he asked, gaze narrowed. “He looks familiar. Has he any relatives serving in the English army?”

Claire made a strangled, coughing sound for whatever reason.

“No,” Hermione said.

“Hm. Well, I must say he doesn’t look very Greek, Hermione.”

She sighed and wrapped her arms around John’s middle, planting a smooch on his shoulder. “Greeks come in many varieties, John, but you're right. He’s not. It'll make sense why I said he was when I explain everything."

Several long moments of silence passed between them, and Hermione anxiously clicked the heels of her shoes against the wooden panels of the floor.

“John?”

Her lover sighed. “But he is your father. You two have the same eyes, similar hair color, and perhaps the ears, too. I dare say, you must favor your mother in every other beautiful aspect."

“She does,” Claire agreed, bobbing her head and shrugging at Hermione’s questioning glance. “I saw a portrait of her in his things. She's stunning, Hermione.”

“You were snooping,” Hermione accused hotly.

And hypocritically.

As if she hadn’t spent her teenage years and professional life doing just that.

“He looks all right and well,” John assessed. “Mr. Thomas described him as bleeding and broken.”

“He was," Hermione said tartly but in Claire's direction. “I confess that Mrs. Fraser gave him a good start in the right direction, but I did the rest.”

“And his heart?" Claire placing a hand over her own.

“I took care of it,” Hermione said.

"You took care of it," repeated John. "Was it with that wand Mr. Thomas gave you?"

"Yes."

"It can make you disappear into nothing and heal?"

"I do the disappearing and healing. The wand simply helps. I am what I am with or without it."

"Oh, well that's...I am not entirely sure how to respond to that."

"You don't have to say anything, but you can tell me if you're angry."

"I am also not entirely sure how to feel. There's my unquenchable lust for you, but may be tainted by anger."

"You're entitled to feel all those things."

"Even lustful?"

Hermione cupped his face, and he kissed the palm of her hand as she stared hungrily up at him. "Especially that."

"Oh, for God's sake," Claire muttered, rubbing her forehead. "Jamie and I should've forced you to stay at the Ridge. This is madness. How did this even start?"

“Admittedly, confusion is overcrowding everything. I'll likely be in this unfortunate state for some time, Hermione, so I might as well go and properly meet your father." John's tone was utterly devoid of anticipation. “Honestly, I’d rather conduct this event at home over a fountain of brandy.”

“All I ask is that you don't make a scene in front of my father. He won’t like it and think unfavorable things about you."

“He already looks like he wants to strike me.”

“He won’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“If he tries, I’ll stop it.”

“What if he challenges me to a duel?”

Her eyes rolled, and she smiled wryly. “He won’t but on the off chance he does, you will not indulge him.”

“Let us not forget the worst problem. Hermione. I will examine you at some point today,” Claire vowed. "I can't imagine what your father will have to say when he finds out you haven't at least consulted a midwife."

“I assume you and Dean brought the carriage. My father and I will ride back with you,” Hermione said to John, ignoring her because Dr. Daniel H. Granger, indeed, would relapse into arrythmia once he found out she winged her prenatal care on self-knowledge alone. “Of course, we’ll have to alert the staff about our guests.”

“Is young William’s grandmother still staying at the estate, Hermione?” asked Claire. "You mentioned she was in your letters."

John’s eyes twinkled perceptively as Hermione guided them across the inn. “I foresee Jamie’s relief in hearing Lady Dunsany set sail a month ago to summer in Helwater.”

The older woman sighed in relief and then smiled at Daniel Granger and Dean Thomas once they reached them.

Keeping her place next to John, Hermione simpered cheerfully at her sullen father and reached out her hand to him when he begrudgingly took in his own. "Daddy, this is Lord John Grey. My darling, this is my father, Dr. Daniel H. Granger."

Chapter Text

Wiltshire, England

April 2028

The Nott Estate

Theodore Nott dismissed Felix the moment the trusted house-elf laid out the spread on the coffee table and then personally pouring Hermione a cup of tea as she murmured angrily at the portrait behind his desk.

She had arrived at his home dressed in a peculiar Muggle outfit. Short stretchy shorts adorned her toned, brown legs. A loose and airy garment covered her torso, pinned to it was a label of numbers. The purple sports bra underneath was saturated in sweat, and her hair was tightly bound in a French braid. Wrapped around her forehead was a thick, soddened band. On her feet were a posh pair of well-worn trainers. Like her legs, her arms were bared, browned, and freckled on the shoulders and forearms. Dirty streaks lined the length of each limb.

Discreetly, he emptied a tiny vile of Calming Draught into her teacup.

“I can't believe you, Draco! What the fuck were you thinking?”

“What would you have had me do? Watch and do nothing as she got fileted alive by the gauntlet that is Theo’s wards?” Draco questioned rather validly.

“You should’ve notified Felix and told him my daughter was impersonating me. He would’ve called for Theo and me,” growled Hermione.

Well, that made too much sense, and Draco—even in death—wasn’t a sensible sort.

“She would’ve lost both her hands and melted off half her face by the time either one of you arrived.”

Draco was entirely correct. Theo’s wards were not to be tampered with by schoolgirls, no matter how terrifyingly clever.

“Explain, then, why you didn’t say anything at all after she left? You claim you don’t want any harm to come to her—”

“I don’t,” clipped Draco. “She’s your precious darling, Hermione, so I helped her. I didn’t say anything to you two because what would be the point? She’d try again and put herself in even more danger. For instance, she might try breaking into another country’s Department of Mysteries.”

“She—”

“Would absolutely do it, and you know it,” scoffed Draco. “She’s far too much like you. She’s headstrong and hellbent to succeed in all her endeavors, but I wasn’t going to trust she’d escape MACUSA without getting caught. Not even you could save her if she fell into their hands. It was safer for everyone, especially her, to let her just have Theo’s and let her do what she’s begged you to do for the last ten years.”

“Notifying me would ensure—”

“What exactly,” Draco interjected. “You barely control her better than your parents controlled you at that age.”

“Fuck off!” Hermione yanked the black curtain over the portrait.

From behind the thick velvet, Theo heard a stifled, “I’ll be with Scorpius. Love you.”

Storming over to the sitting area, Hermione collapsed onto the sofa, and he offered her a cup of tea. Her hands shook when accepting the cuppa and saucer, his mother-in-law’s wedding China clinking in her hands.

Apparently, she’d been running the London marathon when McGonagall’s owl swooped over and deposited a letter on her head. The owl then proceeded to peck at Hermione, expecting food for his service. Hermione, being in her twenty-third mile, had nothing left sustenance-wise in her Camelbak. The northern hawk stalked her, diving to pound its beak into her scalp. A few of her fellow runners rallied with her in trying to deter the bird while onlookers got out their phone to record the spectacle of a nocturnal foul assaulting a singular marathon participant.

In case anyone was wondering, Hermione made the news across the UK and on social media. She outshone even Duchess Kate who had participated in the run, wanting to draw attention to the latest charity she was promoting.

“Again, I’m so very sorry, Hermione,” said Nott. “Felix really thought it was you. She had your mannerisms down and your voice.”

“I’m not upset with Felix, and I hope you aren’t, either.”

Relieved, Nott smiled grimly at the black drapes covering Draco's portrait. “I’m not. I am upset with Draco. I questioned him, and he knew who he was dealing with the moment Danny walked in here despite the Polyjuice façade. He told her exactly where it was, how to get it, and how to use it if she needed to. All things aside, Hermione, what has taken place answers that question how your father got a hold of one.”

Hermione swiveled her shrewd eyes from Draco’s black drapes to him. “My dad told me you gave it to him in upmost secrecy, and that I was not to bring it up to you. He said you spelled yourself to forget and causing you to remember could compromise your position with the Department of Mysteries.”

Nott momentarily contemplated the blatant lie the late Daniel Granger told his daughter. “The Department of Mysteries hadn’t even got the go-ahead to start recreating them until 2009 which was a trial-and-error process, given that much of the knowledge about them was destroyed in the 90s. We didn’t have a functioning one until 2017. In total, DoM has five…well, four now. There would’ve been more, but—”

“I banned further production of them,” finished Hermione.

“A surprising executive order since you’ve been privately using one on the regular for the past seventeen years.”

“When I came into office, I had a meeting with Japan, China, Russia, and the USA—this is between you and I, Theodore—Our nations were the only ones with this kind of technology. Both Japan’s DoM and MACUSA had security breaches. Altogether, twelve Time-Turners had been stolen.”

Hermione paused for dramatic effect; however, Theo knew of that international security breach long before the newly elected minister of 2018 got word of the crimes.

“It made me realize how incredibly dangerous these things are if they fell into the wrong hands. The lethal consequences they can cause if...when the safety-locks are dismantled. The wearer can jump farther back than a handful of hours causing cataclysmic problems. I am embarrassed thinking about how I was given one at thirteen, and I’m ill thinking my sixteen-year-old got ahold of yours.”

Nott removed his glasses and rubbed his left eye. This whole Time bother always gave him headaches. “Which will become yours. This is becoming more confusing and complicated. If Danny had, indeed, gone back to 1769 with the Time Turner to give to your father, then why was nothing else relayed?”

The woman across from him pinched her brows together and frowned into her teacup.

"He must've known," she stated coldly.

"An absurd notion."

“You think he didn’t?” Hermione asked, eyes burning. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming about much when he first found me.”

“Now you’re just digging up bitterness because Brianna’s artwork wasn’t the first thing he told you about.”

“It should’ve at least been the second,” she said crossly.

Theo felt sympathy, truly, but he had to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Before departing from 2011 to 1769, Mr. Granger was given a handful of itty bitty pieces to a monumental jigsaw.”

Theo imagined that if Danny was successful in giving him the rest, everything would’ve turned out much differently. In no universe would Daniel Granger have peace had he known the extent of everything...

His heart stuttered and slid down into his stomach.

Danny would not succeed in relaying the information. The Time-Turner would get to where it would need to, but nothing else. Had she, the moment she entered 1769, the present would’ve altered accordingly.

What Theo knew from his work in the Department of Mysteries—and what Hermione had yet to figure out herself—was that going through a stone circle such as Craigh na Dun and changing history, immediately transformed the present.

Undoubtedly, the Time Turner would ultimately be received by Daniel Granger. The forewarning was not. If all had gone accordingly, Hermione would not be in his home bemoaning Danny’s absence and her dangerous proclivity for mischief.

Something had gone wrong, but what?

Danielle, like her mother, was thorough.

He continued, his voice not betraying his inner thoughts. “Your father thought, as did I, you might lose a child and told you as much when he felt the time was right. He didn’t know you most certainly would, nor did he know that he, your brothers…and Draco would die, too.”

A queer and disquieting ambiance swept through the room, and Theo watched Hermione recede into herself. Her expression both haunted and heartbroken as she curled her legs up to her torso and wrapped her arms around them. She rested her chin on her knees and stared into space.

Allowing her a few minutes to mourn, Theo shuffled over to his desk and began quilling a missive to his office, alerting his staff that he would be out for the following week. Once he finished, he started scrawling a message to Blaise on his Instant Quilling Doc.

I think I know where he is.

“I was careful to never let Danny touch the Time-Turner and never taught her how to dismantle the safety-locks,” Hermione said, finally breaking her silence after ten minutes. “If Draco really did teach her how to get passed them, then she can’t just walk up to her grandfather, shove it in his hands, and tell him to say it was from you. It’d be ideal, but she can’t. He’d think he’d be going mad and die from a heart attack right then and there.”

“This has clearly been planned for ages. Perhaps even years. Danielle will be careful in her journey and abide by time’s delicate intricacies. I doubt she’ll even use the device at all, and neither will your father. He’ll give it to you, or…he did give it to you.”

“If she was abiding by them, she wouldn’t have taken off by herself and to do exactly what I’ve been telling her we couldn’t do for ten years. And you want to know what the worst part is?”

“You can’t follow her,” Theo answered simply.

“I can’t follow her,” she agreed. “Danielle orchestrated it that way. She stole gemstones and my Time-Turner from the family safe...which was actually your Time-Turner. She snatched yours...which will actually become mine. And she picked a time where I couldn’t go because I was already there. You know how The Stones work. No travelling to a time you already exist. You are spat right back out and singed to a crisp for your audacity. Fucking Merlin, I hate how she…Did I ever tell you how my father cursed me?”

“Many times.”

Hermione nodded, fire burning in her eyes. “He told me she was going to be just like me, and I told him that wasn’t going to be possible because she would never leave my arms.”

“And how did that unfold for you?” Theo inquired wryly, for it was true. Though Danielle was delightful and, dare he say, sweet; she inherited the sly and enigmatic countenance of her mother, much to the dismays of her parents and the Hogwarts’ staff. Rules to her were not necessarily meant to be broken but avoided at all costs.

“I haven’t seen this set before,” Hermione said after a long pause, regarding the tea set and changing the subject. Her words came out trembling.

“Gabrielle received them from her mother as a Christmas present last year.”

Hermione nodded, not speaking, and finally sipped her tea. Licking her lips, she sighed. “Calming Draught, really?”

“Just a few drops. It’ll help you relax and talk to me. We can fret over what might be going on then, or you can tell me what’s going on now. How was it realized that Danielle was missing from school?”

With her neck pressed against the headrest, she blankly surveyed the ceiling which was a slow-moving mosaic of The Warlock’s Hairy Heart. “My underage daughter hasn’t been in school for two weeks, and I only found out simply because Headmistress McGonagall caught on to Rosie’s and Lily’s ruse.”

“Rosie?” questioned Theo. “But she’s at uni in Paris.”

And living in a premarital relationship with some tattooed and pierced Squib. At least that’s what Ron and Pansy lamented the last time they supped together.

“No, she isn’t,” said Hermione, her tone brittle. “She’s at Hogwarts and has been the last two weeks Polyjuicing herself as Danny, and Lily has been brewing said Polyjuice for her.”

Theo carefully schooled his features to hide how both impressed and appalled he was over the girls’ impudence. Rosie Jean was six years older than Lily Jean and Danielle, and impersonating a Hogwarts student was against the law. Impersonating a student using Polyjuice was another law broken. Knowingly ingesting illegally brewed Polyjuice was another crime committed. If one wanted to scrutinize the situation further, the fact that a twenty-three-year-old woman had been living in a secondary-school dormitory and socializing with underage folk would be seen unfavorably to the Wizengamot should the case reach the court.

It begged the question…

What kind of hardcore blackmail did Danielle and Lily have on Rosie?

As for seventeen-year-old Lily, the court system would cast a jaundiced but forgiving eye on The Chosen’s One’s baby girl for illegally brewing Polyjuice. Nevertheless, brewing Polyjuice without a license—another regulation that came into effect under Hermione’s reign—was an immediate fine of a steep three-hundred galleons. Lily didn’t have a license to brew Polyjuice let alone a Hangover Potion.

Furthermore, to purchase ingredients for Polyjuice without a license meant Lily and the other girls had to get them by nefarious methods.

Since the reign of Madam Minister Hermione Granger, not even Knockturn Alley had the balls to pedal the ingredients. Hermione had outlawed the potion and its contents. This had forced many black markets out of hiding by becoming clogged, and therefore, more easily monitored. Many high-profile criminals were avid buyers of lace wing flies and the horns of bicorns, the latter being hunted close to extinction.

Hermione possessed a weighty hand in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and had worked with them to elevate bicorns and other popularly poached animals into a protected status.

So not only did the woman before him save many magical and non-magical animals during her tenure as Madam Minister, but she was able to put many truly horrible witches and wizards behind bars. Putting scrutiny on those unseemly channels led the Aurors and Special Sect into the soft underbellies of otherwise impenetrable crime rings.

Smearing a hand down his face and cupping his chin, he leaned forward and asked in the gentlest of tones, “And how was it they were found out? Rosie is an exceptionally good actress. I can’t think it was her.”

Hermione snorted softly. “You’re only saying that because she’s a Slytherin. Rosie made a stupid, rookie mistake. Danielle had all her assignments ready for Rosie to turn them in. What my daughter hadn’t planned for were contingencies. Fed up with an unruly class, Professor Vector all Double Arithmancy students to write an essay on an arinthmancer of their choosing.

“Danny wouldn’t not do the assignment, but Lily’s strengths are elsewhere. Therefore, Rosie had to cook up something believable, and she was not about to do actual homework on behalf of Danny. In the end, she settled on turning in an assignment directly copied from her own essay she wrote in sixth year about the life of Lukus Karuzos. Rosie believed enough time had lapsed as well as Septima’s mind.”

Theo whistled a low tune of disappointment. “Damn, Rosie Jean, I expected better from you. I would deduct points from Slytherin, but the three of them somehow circumvented The fucking Trace. That’s brilliant.”

“It’s horrifying is what it is!” Hermione screeched. “The three of them, two of them Hogwarts students, have done something no one else has done—”

“They’re just taking after their parents, Hermione. How often did you, Harry, and Ron do something no one else could’ve done?” Theo scratched his afternoon scruff and smiled in a painful sort of way. “I’m mean, it’s kind of like karma, isn’t it.”

“You’re as bad as Draco.” She tore off her sweatband and rubbed her sweaty, creased forehead. “Whatever they did to block The Trace, no one can know. Could you imagine the international fallout?"

Theo arched a brow and wondered if the cat was already out of the bag on that. Those three silly girls couldn’t really be the only ones in the world to crack it.

Could they?

“Do you think Scorpius helped them?” asked Theo, though he doubted it.

Hermione shook her head at the mention of her brilliant son who was set to skip two levels and enroll with the Fourth Years in September.

“Not in the least,” she said. "Danny stopped telling him secrets a few years ago because he can’t keep anything from me. It’s a small mercy, considering that’s all she does.”

“I doubt the twins know of the girls’ secrets then,” Theo glanced upwards in the direction of the nursery and thought about his youngest offspring. Isobel should be up from her nap soon and demanding a tea party.

“If it’s not football, rugby, karate, or scouts, Junior doesn’t care. And Benny would live at the ballet studio if I let her. The other day they both told me they didn’t want to go to Hogwarts or any magical school for that matter. Benny wants to dance in the Royal Ballet, and Junior…” Hermione paused, her voice growing both exasperated and exhausted. “He wants to be James Bond.”

“He wants to be an actor?”

“Oh, my God, if only.” Hermione’s bloodshot eyes rolled into the back of her head. “He wants to work for MI-6, so he can travel the world and kill bad guys.”

“That’s so adorable. He wants to be just like his mum when he grows up. It’ll be Danny all over again but more violent and deadly. The United Kingdom will rest safely so long as he is in service of King and country.”

“I hate you. My daughter has run away by herself to the past—something I’ve forbidden her to do all her life—and you want to act like a prat.”

“You know, Hermione,” Nott steepled his fingers, “she may not be entirely alone. Perhaps she swung by somewhere and picked up a friend.”

“You have to know that doesn’t bring me any comfort whatsoever.” Massaging her temple, Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. “She would do that, of course. They have become incredibly close. I hold out hope they outgrow each other when she goes off to uni.”

Theo arches his brows. “Jeremiah is currently at Harvard, isn’t he? His studies haven’t distracted him at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s saving up for a ring.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s because there are no girls there. God, I hope his parents encourage him to broaden his horizon when it comes to courting. He’ll be graduating in a few years. There will be a cultural expectation for him to find a wife and if he does, it will not be my little girl. Her dad and I agreed a long time ago her life would be anchored here.”

“What if she chooses to be elsewhere when she gets older? Willie did after a while, and it’s not like you don’t see him often. It’s not like you don’t see any of them often.”

“I barely managed with Willie,” reminded Hermione. “What got me through that depression was knowing he’d be all right, and he’d be loved and protected on both sides, no matter which one he chose. Danny is a girl and where she went, she’s not loved yet. Besides, it’s different with daughters, and you know it.”

Theo’s half smiled when thinking of his own daughter. “Hermione—”

“I need her here,” she interjected hotly, pounding her little fists into the sofa. “Where she is safe and has the world of opportunity in her hands.”

“I understand,” Theo said softly. “I do. But did you ever think that maybe the opportunities she wants for herself are different than the ones you want for her.”

“She’s sixteen," argued Hermione. "None of my children really know what they want, and neither did I when I was her age. Even though I thought otherwise. Danny proved my point when she started that YouTube channel after I prohibited her from posting on any social media platform until she was eighteen.”

“I recall that channel doing exceptionally well, and she didn’t have to remove half her clothes and wiggle her bottom to achieve three hundred thousand subscribers. She loves teaching the world about how the eighteenth century really was like."

“I’d rather she be teaching all that in a lecture hall—”

“Sounds titillating.”

“—and I am also not fond of those commenters. The wretched things these horrible little men and jealous girls say about her. For Christ’s sake, she’s a child. And don't get me started on those crusty old codgers who stalk her pages and bombard them with unfounded allegations on how inaccurate her historical essays are.”

 “Maybe it’s preparation for her endgame. Claire is getting older, Hermione, and there will be a need for a healer. Danielle does like Herbology and has seemed to take a liking to medicine of both magical and Muggle. She is not above volunteering at St. Mungo’s during holidays and summer break.”

Hermione pouted at him, betrayed. “You know what the first thing she told me she wanted to be when she grew up? She was eight at the time.”

Theo shook his head no.

“A mum.” She squeezed her eyes closed and partially hid her face as if mildly embarrassed. “As you can guess, I reacted poorly. I took away all her baby dolls and replaced them with fancy educational toys, and her father was furious with me. I explained that I wanted more for her, and he humbled me very quickly by reminding me that being a good mother is the hardest job in the world and should our daughter want to be that, we should support her.”

“So you returned her dolls then?”

“I…” Hermione grimaced. “I may’ve donated them.”

Theo quirked a bemused brow.

“Look, I admit it wasn’t my finest moments as a mum, but I truly thought I had her best interest at heart."

“…I see…”

"Go on then. Parent-shame the easy target. If it makes you feel better, I got my punishment, all right? John was very judicious in giving my just deserts.”

“Which were?”

“The twins.” Her cheeks flushing in humiliation. “It wasn’t enough to simply verbalize the importance of motherhood, he felt I needed a swift reminder despite Scorpius still being in nappies and not weaned. How dare he? We were getting too old and grouchy for such tomfoolery.”

Though Hermione knew how to bitch and moan about her husband’s antics like any dutiful and besotted wife, Theo was in tune enough with her to know that the twins did nothing but strengthen her family and her relationship with John. Those babies arrived at a bleak and very dark time in her household. And, yes, sometimes the appearance of needy and power-hungry babies can be that back-breaking straw for the camel. In this particular case, Junior and Benny were the necessary caboose. Their appearance may’ve upended the home and restarted the system, but they also reinforced the foundation.                                

Theo picked up his own teacup from the coffee table and saluted Hermione with it. “Cheers. To your children.”

Hermione smiled thinly which quickly dissolved into a wobbly line. “Do you think…Do you think she’ll be able to prevent it?”

“I don’t know,” Theo lied.

Her chin started to tremble, and a stray tear slid down her cheek. “Maybe this makes me sound like an awful person, but I’m not unhappy right now, Theo, and neither is my mother. It took a long time for us to heal, but Scorpius helped as did the twins. What if what Danielle does makes things worse? That was always the warning. What if John, my mother, and I end up losing more than what we already had? What if we lose each other on top of that? It was not a good time for us if you recall.”

The whole "making things worse" could go straight to hell. Too many horrible things had happened because Theo had been afraid to scratch beyond the surface all those years ago. “Let us not focus on the changes that could happen. I’m more interested in how she’ll relay the info. I’m not convinced charging up to Daniel Granger in 1769 sporting a sad story is going to alter anything for the better, given how troublesome his heart was then. Should he survive the revelation of meeting his first granddaughter, he will have to keep it from you to ensure the wobbly ellipse-shaped circle of Time is maintained. At this point, he’s already keeping a few big secrets from you.”

“You told him to,” she said dryly. “That I know to be true.”

Theo dipped his chin. “I was pretty intense back then, wasn’t I? I scared him too much because I was scared. Guilt-ridden. Afraid you’d blame me for what Draco did to. Thought I helped helped Pucey in luring Draco into killing you. My job was consuming my sanity with everything that could go wrong. All I wanted and what your father wanted was for you to come home. That was top priority. Everything else was inconsequential. I knew so little about Time then and what was to come for you and your family. Even if I had gone against work-ethic and warned you, I couldn’t have even divulged how it all was going to play out because I didn’t know how it would.”

Hermione bent forward and cupped her cheeks. Turmoil marred her features, and Theo frowned at the tea. The Calming Draught had failed her. She needed something stronger, but he wanted her to leave. The sooner she left his house, the sooner he and Blaise could leave 2028 and fix this fucking mess once and for all.

Meandering to the mini bar, Theo poured himself an afternoon brandy. “Look, Hermione, there’s nothing to be done. You can’t follow her, but you can trust her. Don't you trust her--"

"Absolutely not."

"Fair enough," exhaled Theo. "But I do, and not that it's worth much, but Draco does, as well. She’s brilliant, Hermione. Even if the entire message fails to be received by your father, we know he’ll get the Time-Turner.”

She slapped Theo with those devastating brown eyes that helped her win the election. “Well, that's all good and splendid, Theo, but how the hell am I going to tell John what she's done?”

A long thirty minutes later, she finally Flooed home to tell her husband all the wrongdoings their spawn had done.

Alone at last, Theo threw open Draco’s drapes and muttered, “Tempus non est nobis.”

Draco’s empty frame swung to the side revealing a tiny rectangular safe. Pricking his thumb into the distended pin, Theo smeared his bloodied digit across the front and painting a series of runes over it whilst he muttered the appropriate incantations. The cogs inside the door whirled and spun. Cranking the handle, he opened the safe and gingerly entered his hand into the palm-sized interior, careful not to touch the warded velvet which would curse his hand and cause necrosis. Inching out the small pouch from within, he removed it and then closed the safe.

Pleased to see that Blaise had responded to his message, Theo opened the pouch and pulled out one of the eleven Time-Turners he stole eight years ago. He once had the full twelve, but Adrian Pucey had been cunning as he was ruthless. Unbeknownst to many, including Hermione, two years ago the vicious lunatic had held Gabrielle and their infant daughter hostage threatening to not only torture and kill them but expose Theo’s international security breaches and thievery if he didn’t hand over one of the devices.

Theo begrudgingly complied but not before laying three curses down upon the Time-Turner. The first curse would expel at first use, burning deep into the wearer’s skin and becoming irremovable. Upon second use, the second curse would spring an agonizing leak in, not only Pucey’s magic, but his vitality. Even if he stopped using it all together, his magic would weaken over time as would his health.

As for the third and final curse, Theo felt inspired by the Standing Stones and ladened the Time-Turner with an inability to return to Pucey’s own present and future. The years of 1979 and onward were off limits to the device. Having one Adrian Pucey in the time continuum was dangerous enough.

“I should’ve fucking killed you when I had the chance instead dilly-dallied like a mewling cunt,” he muttered to himself.

Green flames roared to life in his private Floo, and Blaise stepped out of the hearth dressed as if he were on one of his Special Sect ops. The uniforms changed occasionally and were often heavily inspired by the Marvel Cinematic Universe, much to the embarrassment and or glee of his team members.

“You found him,” was all he said.

“You can’t wear that where we’re going,” said Theo, staring at Blaise’s white body-suit.

“This is my Thanos-killing ensemble,” Blaise responded coolly.

“Pucey isn’t Thanos,” he stated and not for the first time. "He's not even in the same league as Thanos."

"Fine, then. He's my six-fingered man."

"Whatever. The Avengers didn’t wear those when killing him. They wore them when going back in time. It's the eighteenth century, so it’ll be breeks and tricorn hats.”

Blaise rolled his slanted eyes. “How dull. I guess I will have to return to my default.” Flourishing his wand, Blaise altered his suit, the white darkening into blue. Red lattices appeared as did white ones. “But I’ve told you before, mate. For whatever reason, people absolutely loathe me wearing the Union Jack.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re not actually a UK citizen.”

“Well, someone has to wear it,” Blaise defended, throwing his arms up. “Out of all those I’ve had on my teams, no one wanted to wear it. I even tried getting Hermione to wear it on missions before she retired from the field, and she outright refused.”

Theo whistled at the rather cute visual. "That would’ve been a sight for sure.”

“Well…” Blaise smirked and leaned closer to Theo, his voice quieting. “I did manage in persuading her to take the suit home one weekend, warded shield included. She returned it the following Monday stating her unhappiness with the product, and a month later she retired officially from the DMLE. Little Helena was on her way, and let me tell you, Theo, my maths always be mathing.”

Making a sound of disgust, Theo turned away from Blaise. “Merlin, I didn’t need to know that.”

“I’m just indirectly mentioning that Hermione may’ve disliked the regalia, but I believe someone in her home was rather partial to it.”

“She must’ve cut a striking figure in, undoubtedly. You, on the other hand, I’m afraid no one will want to impregnate you.” A shadow of a dark smile quirked at Theo’s lips. “But I’m assuming that’s not on your eighteenth-century agenda.”

“Hell no. That was Hermione’s thing, and I daren’t overshadow her glorious questionable decisions with my own. My plan is and always has been to rip out Pucey's heart and crush it in my grasp.” A dark, unhinged grin graced Blaise's full lips. "I've nearly perfected the spell, Theo. All hail, Queen Regina."

"Will you ever stop obtaining inspirations from Muggle pop-culture?"

"No."

"Good. I want to know how to perform the spell once you got it right." Theo dipped his chin. “Anyway, speaking of Hermione’s glorious questionable decision, this is primarily about Danny.”

Blaise bristled, his wicked smirk sliding off his face. “Why? What happened? Is she all right? Is it about that ginger buffoon who won’t leave her the hell alone?”

The reference could mean Jeremiah Mackenzie or Ronald Weasley Jr. Both were ginger buffoons, and both wouldn’t leave Danielle the hell alone.  

“She bypassed The Trace and buggered off to the eighteenth century by herself,” Theo started, folding his arms. “And not to be with Mackenzie. She clearly went to stop what’s to come.”

A sparkle of repressed hope ignited Blaise’s eyes but was quickly followed by bitter resignation, and Theo saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down. The loss of Dr. Granger had been difficult for him, yes, but the deaths of Joshua and Isaac had devastated him emotionally, crippling and stunting his spirit for well over a year. He broke off his engagement to that Virginian Muggle and disappeared for six months. When he returned, he was barely recognizable as the sassy, fun-loving man he used to be.

“That’s what this is about,” Blaise whispered, swallowing. His jaw ticked. “You want to keep her from changing anything.”

Theo shook his head. "Danny's the one who got the Time-Turner to her grandfather to begin with."

"I thought it was you—"

"It wasn't. Naturally, she'll be informing him of what will happen. He'll get the device, but not the warning which means Danny's won't be returning. She's not going to leave unless she knows for sure the message was relayed. And, yeah, it’s about Pucey, too. I think he’s going to be the reason why Hermione’s dad doesn’t get all the information. He’s there, too, ensuring his future damage takes place. Not only that, I think he’s going to—”

“Kill Danny,” finished Blaise.

“The fuck he will!” roared Draco, sprinting back into his frame to throw his tiny coffee table against the wall. “For fuck’s sake, you two stop dithering about and narrating the situation and go save her! If I have to watch Hermione lose another child or see my son without another older sister—”

“We’ll save her, Draco,” assured Theo and then glanced at Blaise. “He’s right. Let’s go. We’ll portkey to U.S., Apparate to Virginia, and then time-turn from there.”

Lynchburg, Virginia

April 1769

Stepping out of the apothecary with the items on his wife’s list, Jamie started towards the River Inn and wondered how he was to apologize to a man who looked like that devil Jack Randall.

In the space of seconds, the forgiveness and the forgetting of what that wretch of a man did had come to a screeching halt at the arrival of that wee besom’s father.

How could a man that held no relation to the Randall family resemble them so?

He grunted, approaching the tavern, apathetic to reenter the musky enclosed space where he’d have to reface, not only John Grey and Daniel Granger again, but Hermione. Claire had again chided him fiercely after she was exiled from Granger’s room by his daughter.

Claire hadn’t detailed the goings-on that happened once Hermione rushed inside to her father’s, but his wife had been almost fearful of the younger woman’s wrath.

“I’ll spare you the time to find a way to be repentant, Jamie!” she said.

“She’s wi’ child, Claire.” He angrily thumping the side of his fist on the table. “And far enough along. Ye ken what could happen.”

“On top of all the risks women face when they are pregnant, there’s the fact the child may not be able to travel through the stones should she not pass through in time! Yes, Jamie I’m very aware!” His wife pressed the heels of her hand into her lovely eyes. “I honestly don’t know if it’s a curse or blessing her father is here. On one hand, they have each other, but on the other, there’s the chance the child won’t be able to travel if they don’t return in time to the stones. Hermione will not leave her child, and her father may very well not leave her—”

“Ye said she dinna want bairns.”

“You must realize that not wanting babies and then birthing them anyway often changes the mindset.”

“In an ideal world, aye, Sassenach. But I dinna ken that I need tae remind ye of Geillis. A woman not fit to be a mother before and after she bore a babe.”

“Hermione is not Geillis. Yes, I got the impression Hermione is terribly inconvenienced by her state, but in no way does that make me believe she’ll give birth here and run off to the future should the child be unable to go with her. Jesus Christ, Jamie, even if she had no other choice but leave behind her baby and go, passing through the stones might kill her. I went through for the safety and sake of Brianna. Nothing else would’ve been strong enough to pull me through. Had I not had her inside of me, I wouldn’t have made it. You’ve seen the states mothers are in when they lose their little ones, whether by death or separation.”

His wife was right and recalled when he first saw her after he was released from the Bastille all those years ago. He had not been there when they lost their wee Faith, nor in those harrowing weeks following. But Claire had long ago explained her agony to him, and though her body had been ill and feverish, it was her soul and heart which swam in peril.  

Not wanting to dwell on those damning memories of Paris, he changed the subject. “Is Bonnet the father?”

A long, drawn out sigh escaped her full and pretty lips. “She seemed offended to even have that allegation brought against her when I asked. It makes me wonder if John really is.”

A preposterous notion, but John himself claimed the unborn babe as his own and even went so far as to declare he possessed carnal knowledge of the woman.

Thus, Jamie had little choice but to plow his fist into the pervert’s belly for not only his perverse insolence but neglecting Hermione’s welfare. Had the man taken more care…

“Did Hermione say he was?”

“Well…no.”

“Ha! So Grey’s no’ the father.”

“For God’s sake, who else could it be?”

“There’s men aplenty between the Ridge and here, Sassenach, who’ll force themselves on a puir wee lass to satiate their lust.”

“I really don’t think she was forced. By all means, she was careless, but—"

“James Fraser,” called an unfamiliar voice. The urgent, feminine tone ripped him out of his musings.

Jamie turned around to find a diminutive girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen scandalously dressed in boys’ attire. Snug black breeks lined her legs, and leather knee-high riding boots donned her feet. A black vest laced up her front, and the sleeves of her white sark beneath were rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was the color of golden honey and toffee, the staticky tendrils carelessly secured in a thong at the back of her head. Loose and wavy curls fell down her back. Peach colored freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Encircled in her arms was a fluffy fat white cheetie who stared up at him loathingly.

Expectedly, he and everyone within a twenty-foot vicinity gawked at her. A lad of similar age to the lass strolled up behind her—a titillated smirk on his lips—and whacked her hard on the bottom.

Before Jamie could even have a proper think on defending the lass, said lass spouted blasphemes and whirled around quick. In a blink, she reeled back one arm and landed a solid punch between the offender’s legs.

Jamie winced.

A high-pitched squeal, not unlike a wounded sow, whistled out the boy’s mouth. He cupped himself and fell the ground, whimpering like a freshly weaned toddler. The girl stared down at him dispassionately and with an eyeroll, she turned her attention back to him.

“So,” she said, exhaling. “James Fraser.”

“Aye?” he said, gaze narrowing at her mouth. Pretty as the little lass was, there was something terrifying on her teeth.

She snuggled the cat in her arms close to her bosom and kissed its head affectionately. “I almost didn’t make it because of you, you silly stinky girl.”

“Mrooooww,” the cat noised dejectedly.

Incapable of voicing his curiosity and concern, he pointed at her mouth. “What in God’s name are on your teeth, lass? Who did that to you?”

“They’re called braces,” she replied frostily. “Or orthodontic cases, like, depending on where you live. My granny put them on me.”

Her accent was peculiar, too. “Why?”

Her eyes rolled again, this time at him, her soft smile one of exasperation. “It’s like déjà vu, I swear. Because, Jamie, my two front teeth stuck out, like, a lot.”

“Do I ken ye, lass?” he asked even though he was certain he didn’t.

“Not yet, but you will soon. Be a dear and hold Cordelia, would you?” Without waiting for his reply, she thrust the feline towards him. “Don’t let her go. She’s a wandering slag and will get pregnant in, like, half a blink.”

“I dinna understand—”

Slung over her shoulder was a peculiar looking satchel made of what looked like rosary beads. Out of it, she handed him a rectangular, polished box which he hesitantly accepted. Firmly, she bequeathed him instructions.

“You need to give this to Daniel Granger privately.” Her dark blonde brows were overly expressive, and her sky-blue almond shaped eyes narrowed as if daring him to defy her. “As for Cordelia, you must personally hand her over to Hermione Granger if you desire to escape her wrath unscathed. When she or anyone asks where you found her, you will say, like, how you rescued Cordy from a clowder of feral toms in an alley.”

Jamie blinked at the young lady, and the puzzle pieces slowly fell into place.

Not yet, but you will soon.

“Christ, lass." He stomped towards her. His frame towered over hers, and she stared up at him, undaunted.

Unafraid.

In an irritating familiar sort of way.

She looked at him—not kindly, but as though she had known him her entire life and trusted him with it.

“Ye canna be saying that ye’re…” Jamie hesitated, unsure how to word his question.

The young girl’s shrew gaze flickered further upwards at the inn, and she touched the necklace hanging around her neck. The pendant was a sturdy golden ring, polished and intricately interwoven. Jamie furrowed his brow, for that Granger wore the same band on his ring finger.  “My parents can’t ever know I was here. You tell them, it’ll muck everything up and horribly so, I imagine. I’m trying to make things better, not worse.”

She turned to flee, and he hurriedly pocketed the rectangular box, so he could grab her arm. “Wait jus’ one moment there—”

“My window is closing—”

“Tell me yer name, and I’ll let ye go.” The cat in his arms purred and began to gingerly claw at his cravat. “Just so I ken fer sure I’m no’ goin’ mad.”

She cocked her head as if weighing the risks of letting him know. Both gestures were irritatingly familiar.

“Danielle,” she conceded then flashed an eerie, metallic smile at him. Her expression became lively and impish. The smooth skin underneath her eyes crinkled, much like a wee pervert’s Jamie knew who needed a good arse-kicking. She then put a finger to her lips and spoke quietly. “Danielle Alexandria. Danielle after my grandfather. Alexandria after my godfather.”

With that said, she took advantage of his stunned state and easily freed herself, sprinting down the street towards a gangly young man no less than a foot taller than her. A thoroughbred stood by him, and beneath a clerical cap his wiry hair was a vibrant, uncanny shade of red. The young lad waved a cautious hello at him before taking the wee lass’s hand in his own large one. Fingers momentarily interlaced, he assisted Danielle onto the saddle before climbing behind her. Waving farewell at him, she grabbed ahold of the reigns and steered the horse into the opposite direction.

“Christ in heaven.” Jamie crossed himself followed by drawing the sign of the devil in their wake.

Chapter Text

Inside the tavern, Claire and John were nowhere to be found. Jamie figured they must be upstairs in Granger’s room. Instead of seeking out his wife, he ordered the strongest ale available along with a wee bowl of cream. He sat down in a corner away from the crowd to be alone with his thoughts and a lit candle while Cordelia lapped blissfully from her dish.

Absentmindedly stroking the cat between her ears, Jamie reflected on Claire's accusations about him acting blindly when emotions got the better of him. His Sassenach wasn’t wrong, and his raw, swollen knuckles attested to his shortcomings. Before charging upstairs to drag his wife away for a private conversation regarding this Danielle Alexandria, he figured it best to allow himself a few minutes to, not only bask in the warmth filling his chest about that wee lass’s middle name, but contemplate on how to rectify the matter with Granger.

He grunted, thinking he likely owed an apology to that wee pervert John Grey, too.

Despite having met the fruit of the man’s transgression, discontent once again roiled inside Jamie. That bastard was to take care of Hermione. Jamie was not so upset the two idiots married. He himself married Claire to protect her. Aye, he loved her then, but that wasn’t the point. Grey may’ve held affection for that troublesome besom, yet he shouldn’t have lain with her, forbye. Getting her with child condemned her to this wretched time when she ought to be in her own.

Claire had mentioned Hermione was like Brianna, accepted into a university and had even graduated. His wife relayed the woman's ostentatious desire to become an elected leader in government. She could not have such a life here as John Grey’s wife and mother to his kit.

And mother to Willie.

Jamie grunted once more, wondering what the lad thought about all this bùrach and then concluded the boy likely possessed a shallow understanding of the circumstances.

Hermione should've left weeks ago to catch a ship to Scotland or Hispaniola. Leaving so close to the summer solstice placed her at risk of birthing Danielle before being able to pass through the stones.

However, his concern about the babe unable to hear the stone’s call was no longer valid, for Danielle was evidence she could time-travel like her mother and like Claire.

Halfway through his brew, Jamie retrieved the box from the recess of his vest. The temptation was strong to see what was inside. Danielle hadn’t forbidden him from looking, but she’d been most severe in wanting it delivered to her grandfather. Whatever inside was important enough for the girl to risk travelling through time.

Both curiosity and fear obtained the better of him, and Jamie opened the box. What if there was something he ought to know about his own future, and most importantly, Claire’s? This revolution both she and Hermione warned him of would come, and he would do all necessary to protect his wife and people at Fraser’s Ridge.

The polished lid didn’t even creak when his resolve broke and inside was a creased piece of paper, queerly lined and fringed. Taking it out from the padded, velvet interior, Jamie saw a black cloth pouch beneath.

Unfolding the paper before prodding into the pouch, Jamie frowned at the odd, thin feel of it as well as the violet ink and the boxy, neat print scrawled on the blue lines. His fingertips brushed the rough fringes attached to the left side of the paper and had the earnest desire to pluck off each one.

“Christ,” he blasphemed, finding his glasses and placing them low on his nose. Where on God’s earth did she find purple ink and why the hell did she feel it necessary to write with it?

Dear Uncle Jamie, I know you’re reading this and why you felt you must pry into a matter meant for my Grandpa. I’m not upset, and I understand your worries. The American Revolution is on the approach, and currently, you’re walking the tightrope as both your community and England watch you perform a precarious act. One wrong step, and everything you’re working so hard for could be ripped out from under you.

I know you’d like me to tell you what is to come for you, Auntie Claire, and Fraser’s Ridge. I won’t. I refuse to rob you of the joy coming into your life as well as the hurdles which will shape you into the man I know as my godfather.

Captivated and alarmed by her words, Jamie didn’t notice Cordelia’s ears twitching. The white Persian paused her lapping of the cream and sprung her neck up, slanted eyes narrowed in murderous contemplation. The cat bared her teeth, hissing, and launched herself off the table, darting out of the tavern and back into the streets of Lynchburg.

I am already risking backlash from Time. I could very well make matters worse, but the universe has given me many gifts, among them the ability to time-travel. I can’t live my life wondering about the “what ifs’ when I have a chance to prevent devastation from plaguing my parents’ lives and my grandma’s.

My mum did warn me of what could happen should I misuse our gift, but I have to try and stop what will happen. I’m not attempting to stop or start a war. I’m not helping a country evade famine or prevent further colonization under British rule. My motives are hopefully minute enough that Time won’t punish me too harshly.

James Fraser, I want to prevent the murders of my little sister, my grandpa, my Uncle Josh, and Uncle Isaac. Please help me by giving the box and pouch to Daniel Granger.

“Christ.” Though there was more to be read, Jamie removed his specs and laid down the paper.

Where the devil was his wife?

His thoughts troubled further at noticing the empty table and the abandoned bowl of cream.

And for God’s sake, where did that cat go?

Jamie swept his gaze through the tavern, searching for the wee white beast. He stood up to get a better view and then froze when feeling a pistol dig into the middle of his spine.

“Move a fucking bloody inch, I’ll keep you alive just long enough to watch me break every bone in your wife’s body.”

The threat came from an Englishman not known to Jamie, and he resisted the temptation of craning his neck to see the man’s face. In his peripheral, however, he could see the man was dressed as a blasted Redcoat.

Curling his fingers into fists, he forced himself to remain calm and not draw attention to them. “If you have a bone to pick with me, you’ll leave my wife out it.”

Jamie felt the man come closer, hot breath hitting his ear and the back of his neck. “I have nothing against you or your wife with the exception of befriending Hermione Granger. You best to pick your associates more wisely, Mr. Fraser. A woman like her brings trouble. Her daughter is proof.”

The pistol travelled to Jamie’s side, the muzzle burrowing into the flesh below his rib. The holder of it reached a gloved hand towards the table, completely ignored the draw-string pouch to snatch the letter. Droplets of blood seeped from the riding gloves into the paper, and a raw, frigid sensation shot down Jamie’s spine.

At the new angle, Jamie was able to see the stranger and concluded he was just that. Jamie had no idea who this man was, nor did he resemble anyone known to him. He was several inches shorter than Jamie. Beneath his hat, his sandy blonde hair was short, tapered, and thin. The stretched skin over his hallowed cheeks was gray and damp. The whites of his dulling blue eyes were yellowed.

As for the man’s chosen attire, Jamie instantly knew he wasn’t a fecking Redcoat. Uniform infractions marred his entire person. If Grey saw this wretched man, he’d scream like a little lassie at the eyesore and shoot the bastard on principle for his audacity.

“Is that Danielle’s blood on yer hands?” inquired Jamie, his tone sharp. “What’d ye do tae her?”

The man’s smirk caused clenching in Jamie's wame. Though he didn’t look a thing like Randall, the same dangerous, volatile aberrance radiated off him.

Alas, John wouldn’t get the chance to duel the bastard, for Jamie decided he’d kill the man the moment he brought up Claire. He now just opted to do it slowly.

The man skimmed the contents of the letter and then chuckled before shoving the paper into his pocket. “Fucking hell, she’s just as much of troublesome cunt as her mother. Let’s take a walk outside.”

“I’m no’ going anywhere wi’ ye—”

“Imperio.”

Storm clouds gathered in the sky, and the wind went from a gentle, pleasant breeze to a gusty current. The shutters rattled, and the curtains in Daniel Granger’s room billowed outwards. Hermione set down the tea tray at the small table and rushed to close the window. The coolness was most welcome on her heated skin. The air was warm in her father’s room, and a sharp pounding in her skull was beginning a nauseating rhythm.

Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she dug out her fan from the pocket of her dress and fanned herself whilst scowling at three of the four people sitting around the table.

They were raising her blood pressure, most particularly her father. He wasn't being amicable and was somehow completely impenetrable to John’s charms. Hermione knew her father wouldn’t be impressed by John’s status, access to wealth, or political influence. But her lover was so much more than title and tin. As of now, he was relaying his most remarkable attributes such as his bravery and heroics for Daniel Granger to hear, for he was not unaware the older man seemed to dislike him.

A father of a daughter not liking him was new territory for John. Hermione remembered his reception quite well in Jamaica. Upon word of the Jamaican governor's unfortunate entrance into widowhood, prosperous plantation owners gleefully threw their unwed daughters at him. It was the primary reasons she herself was so ill-received by many there. She was seen as a potential threat.

Since their introductions in the hallway, her father had barely spoke. He had refused John’s handshake and only acknowledged him with a grim nod. Their conversation since then had been terribly one-sided with John doing most of the talking. Her lover accepted the spotlight with the help of Dean who was playing her father’s part. Her former schoolmate and peer asked questions, dutifully gauging John’s worthiness of her affection.

On the other hand, Daniel had been cordial to Claire, even acting the gentleman and kissing the back of her hand which sent the woman into a misty-eyed titter. For a short time, she appeared to be on the brink of hysterics and about to throw herself into Daniel’s arms.

Hermione had found herself needing to leave John’s side as to link her arm around Claire’s, so the woman wouldn’t make an utter fool of herself. From there, she alleged they should all rest in her father’s room for tea. Dean ordered a tray from the kitchen, and a maid brought it up only recently.  

“And for a time after,” John said, sprinkling a pinch of sugar into his teacup, “I was governor at Ardsmuir prison and provided better conditions with the limited means given. Nonetheless, it closed, and I went abroad for my work. Germany, mostly. Have you been? Splendid summers there, I do say. We must visit, Hermione. Perhaps next year. Still, I stayed in close ties with the Dunsany family in northern England. A prominent and well-connected family in the Lake District. I married their youngest, Isobel, who entered our union with a child. Her nephew. His name is Willie and in all but blood, he is my son, and I love him most dearly. His mother died not long after his birth as did his father, so he’d been in our care up until Isobel passed from the bloody flux on her way to Jamaica which is where I was governor. That is where I met Hermione.”

John’s self-told memoir was not wowing her father nor Dean by any stretch of the imagination. Neither of them had been inspired by her lover’s early entrance into His Majesty’s army, his affiliation with the quashing of the second Jacobite Rising, nor his time lending a hand in the French-Indian War. Dean had vocalized his distaste in Britain’s proclivity in demolishing cultures, enforcing their own by intimidation, bloodshed, etc, and taking advantage of tribal contentions in prosperous countries.

John played it smart and had not argued with the soft-spoken, Black Englishman who possessed twinkling, spirited eyes and dimples.

For the first time since the introductions of everyone, her father strung more than two words together by inquiring about Willie. “Willie, you say?"

Her father’s eyes drifted from John to Hermione, and she beamed as she continued to fan herself. Perhaps she ought to sit down. Her vision was starting to tilt a bit, so she braced herself on one of the posters of the bed. “My first student, and I do love him, Daddy. He’s such a fine boy. I would love for you to meet him. He’s kind of like…well, your grandson in a very complicated way.”

“Hermione, are you all right?” asked Claire, setting her teacup aside and rising.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just a little tired.” Her eyes closed, and she stopped fanning herself to take a seat at the table. “Nothing a little tea and bread won’t help.” Before she could pour herself a cuppa, John prepped one the way she liked it as of late—both sugar and honey. He also amply buttered a slice of bread for her. “Thank you, darling.”

“Are you sure you’re well?” asked John. He took her free hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “I do worry, my dear.”

“This will help.” She bit into her buttered bread and gulped her tea, smiling. The butter was salty, and the bread crusty. Along with the soothing warmth of tea, her insides settled. “Anyway, tell my father more about Willie and about her nephews and niece.”

“You best lay down, sweetheart,” her father said. “You’ve put much stress on yourself.”

“Truly, I’m fine.”

“Let me—” tried Claire.

“Really, I’m well,” Hermione declared, forcing a tiny smile, and she looked at John. “Besides, I have so much to tell you, and I better before we return home. I don’t…I don’t think it wise for your brother’s family or the staff to know what I’m about to tell you.”

“And what of the people here at this table?” he inquired politely as possible, though his blue eye flicked in Claire’s direction.

“Claire knows.” Hermione sighed. “Claire knows much of it already, John, and has since we visited last October.”

A part of her heart fractured at the betrayal washing over her lover’s face, and he released her hand.

Consisting of but a handful of words, she saw him go from adoration and concern to cold displeasure. She almost reached for him, wishing to force the reconciliation but thought better of it. Badly as she wanted to, she couldn’t control his reaction, nor could she blame him for it.

The hurt in his eyes burned her deeply, and Hermione concluded had Claire known nothing, it would’ve been better. Her truth would’ve been received better. The fact Claire knew before he did, splintered and lodged something jagged inside him, and Hermione saw his pain.

Had she confided in anyone else, such as Charlotte or Caroline, maybe the blow wouldn’t have been so violent and jarring. As it was, Hermione knew Claire Fraser was a sensitive subject for him. John may’ve not known she knew how much, but it didn’t matter.

Had she been younger or childish, she may’ve indignantly brought up how he had yet to divulge all his secrets to her. Perhaps even lay blame at his boots for not endeavoring further in making her feel secure underneath the umbrella of his affection, for he didn’t love her like she loved him. He may not love her at all and never would.

But Hermione was approaching her thirty-second year and pointing out the carefully disguised chinks in his armor which were already visible to her solved nothing. Did she know all of John’s secret? No. However, she knew two of his most damning ones because she possessed excellent observation skills and a damning habit of being nosy.

The first secret was his pension for having homosexual liaisons.

The second was Willie’s true parentage.

John knew nothing of her secrets. Not one. All she had revealed of her true self were her scars and the dismal fact she gave her virginity to a man who never became her husband. At this point in her life as a married, pregnant woman and even in this archaic year, those matters were hardly going to ruin her life. 

Did it even matter at this point John had seen her use her wand and disappear in a blink? Her performing magic in front of him, brief as it was, answered nothing. She doubted he stroked his chin after her departure and said to Dean, “This makes so much sense, Mr. Thomas.”

One could argue their relationship started on the basis of being casual and affectionate lovers, not truth. They did not begin this affair divulging secrets to one another. What they wanted to know about each other was practical and fair. Upon supposed matrimony, practically and equality weren’t the sole two things which kept happy unions afloat.

“John,” she croaked, tears blurring her vision. This time she did reach out for him, only to be rebuffed, and she gasped out strangled sob. “John, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be upset with her,” said Claire. “It’s not her fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. We discovered quite by accident how we're very similar in our backgrounds.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice thin. His jaw ticked. “And how so? Are you both…have you both been Jacobite spies at one point? Or for that matter, French spies?”

Hermione felt her father’s bemusement rather than saw it and winced when he said, “This is the man you chose, Hermione? He’s as dull and dimwitted as all the others who’ve pined over you—”

“Dad!” She gave him a patient look. “Just think of where we are and when. And, Claire, she was a rightfully accused Jacobite in the Second Rising.”

Daniel gifted the woman an impressed glance as did Dean who whistled and broke out into an infectious, dimpled simper that had Claire’s own pursed lips twitching.

“That’s hard core, Dr. Fraser,” said Dean, reaching over the table to shake her hand which she sheepishly accepted, her pale features flushing hotly.

“Do I detect Catholicism in you, Mr. Thomas?” asked John, brows arched.

“Oh, no.” Dean waved dismissively and refilled his cup. “Christened an Anglican. Seamus, my life-partner, is Irish Catholic, though. Makes holidays interesting, not going to lie, Lord John."

“Seamus?” balked John.

Even Claire’s eyelid twitched as if sensing where the conversation was heading.

Dean quaintly stirred his tea. “Homosexuality, or like myself which is bisexual, is more accepted among certain parts of the world in the year of our Lord 2011, which is where Dr. Granger and I are from. Hermione, on the other hand, is from the year prior. Dr. Fraser is from…I’m sorry, please remind me.”

“Well,” said Claire, pausing to take a healthy gulp of her tea. Her leopard eyes held John’s and softened them as best she could, given the circumstances. “Just so you are aware, Jamie knows this about me. This isn’t news to him, and he believes me. He has seen me…he has seen me come and go, so to speak.”

The woman shifted both her body and stare in the direction of Hermione. “And I ask you to let Hermione and myself speak before you interject upon anything you hear. Lend us your ears for a time, even if you can’t your heart. You see, I was born in the year 1918. A long time from now.”

“And I was born sixty-one years after,” added Hermione. She exhaled softly and then boldly stared at John’s face, absorbing every upcoming, incredulous expression. “In 1979. I wasn’t born in Greece. That was a lie to protect myself. The truth is I was born at the Tameside General Hospital to my mother Helena Iris Christakos-Granger and Daniel Hugo Granger. They were both studying to become dentists at Manchester. Once they obtained their full education and finished their clinicals, they moved to Surrey, and I was raised there from three to eleven years old. From thence, I pursued my adolescent education in northern Scotland at a boarding school. Dean,” she gestured to the man with a nudge of her head, “was a school mate of mine—”

“There are boys and girls together!” John exclaimed, scandalized…and belated.

Hermione found it fascinating for all she had said so far, that is what caused John to lose his cool, and she had to snort a little.

“Black boys and girls,” emphasized Dean, smirking in tender triumph.

“In northern Scotland?” gasped Claire in disbelief.

"I admit, there aren't many of us, ma'am," said Dean.

“And at such impressionable and delicate ages?” John shook his head, flabbergasted, snapping his gaze from Hermione to Dean. “Surely, there was an epidemic of premarital pregnancies.”

“That…is concerning, Hermione,” said Claire, motherly apprehension marring her beautiful face, and she shot Daniel Granger a disapproving glare. “Neither one of my husbands would have condoned that decision. They would’ve disliked our daughter attending a co-ed school away from home in his or her youth. Those situations are best done at university when everyone is more mature and knowing of consequences.”

A bubbling laughter erupted out of both Hermione and Dean, but then they both quickly sobered and gave each other unsure looks.

“You know, there really wasn’t a sexual education class there,” she said to him, biting her bottom lip. "And all the books about it were in the Restricted Section. No one had the bravery to get permission from a professor let alone check one out from Madam Pince, either."

Dean stroked his scruffy chin. “I doubt to think everyone was chaste. Take Blaise for example. He was sleeping with everybody, and I had my share of dalliances. Seamus had girlfriends. Ron and Lavender fooled around quite a bit. Sorry, Hermione."

"It's all right. I already know," Hermione assured. "Not mention, it was a very long time ago."

"Ron slept with someone else before you?" Daniel edgily inquired. "I didn't know that."

"She was his first girlfriend. He didn't go all the way with her, not that it's any of your business," Hermione said. "It was mine and his."

"Your business is my business, sweetheart, and Dean seams to know quite a bit about it."

"He and Ron shared a dorm for six years."

"A poor excuse if any."

She calmly and consciously lowered her hands to the table lest she slam them down like an enraged brute. "It doesn't matter now, nor has it for well over a decade. The girl who had those few firsts with him is dead. So instead of being peeved on what a teenage boy may or may not have done with his teenage penis, I'd prefer you direct your focus to what's happening now."

Her father lowered his head, somewhat chastened. "Dead, you say? How?"

"Oh, my God. Must you insist on giving me ulcers."

Gesturing to himself sheepishly, Dean continued as if father and daughter weren't bickering. "Don’t tell Harry, Hermione. Or Molly, but Ginny and I may’ve done more than fool around in sixth year.”

“I won’t,” Hermione promised and then hastily touched her father’s arm, though her annoyance with him was reaching dangerous heights. The man deeply frowned at her in fatherly speculation. “But I didn’t fool around, Daddy. Rest assure, I spared very little time for romance until I finished my final exams. Even when I was with Ron, you know we weren’t intimate until I had the ring on my finger and the wedding date set.”

“Really Hermione,” sighed Claire. “You couldn’t wait?”

Hermione tossed her a dirty look. “You are not my mum, Claire, and how I conduct the intimate aspects of my adult life are none of your concern,” she declared whilst simultaneously reliving flashbacks of how Helena Granger asked the exact same question Claire had when she found out about her sleeping with Draco. “Shall I interrogate you on your own virginal status before you married your first husband?”

“That,” started Claire, cheeks coloring, “is beside the point.”

"And what about you?" She returned her attention to her father. "Shall we talk of the ex-girlfriends you had before Mum? And I'm sure you were the upmost gentleman and never did anything with them the Bible warned against."

"Your mother and I agreed we would never speak of them," Daniel said, looking over his shoulder as if his wife should burst through the door and threaten to castrate him.

Fueled by Claire’s misguided maternal behavior, Hermione continued in a more direct approach to the matter at hand. “John, I’m from the future. As is my father, Dean, and Claire. I was born in 1979. Though my mother is Greek, I was born in England. I came to be in 1768 because I fell through a vortex while visiting what will be called the Dominican Republic. I had been lured there by…” Hermione bit her lip and then exhaled in determination. “By my husband who’d been planning to kill me.”

Hermione paused, noting the knitting of his brows and the enlargement of his eyes.

“I-I beg your pardon?” He peered from one person to the next, silently pleading for both assistance and elaboration.

“Until I met Claire at Fraser’s Ridge, I was mostly at a loss as to what had happened,” Hermione said. “A very similar incident happened to her over twenty years ago in Scotland.”

“I had come from 1946,” said Claire.

“Insane as it sounds, there are spots around the world that don’t obey nature’s laws,” Dean said, leaning forward and clasping his hands. “People, too, and we’ll get to that. For now, we just want to stress how none of us at this table, aside from you, are from the 18^th century.”

“You can believe us or not, John. I can give you proof despite it most assuredly mystifying you more than reassuring you—”

“Enough of this,” her father interjected, slamming palm on the tabletop, causing the tea in the cups to ripple. “You must be aware, Mr. Grey, why I’m here.”

“For God's sake, Daddy,” chided Hermione softly.

John stared, unmoved, though Hermione saw the tips of his ears pink indicating how thoroughly peeved he was. Her lover interlaced his fingers and calmly rested them on the table. “Dr. Granger, it has been an honor to meet you and though this has been a terribly perplexing day, I made a vow to your daughter and she me. We are married and are to have a child. Regardless of whatever agitation I’m currently experiencing towards her, our union and the fruit of it will not change. I will not seek a divorcement, nor will I allow my offspring to be taken from me. Yes, I’m aware why you’re here. You plan on taking Hermione away from me—”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Daniel stated, “and she belongs with you even less—”

“The child she carries is mine. By law, your daughter is mine, as well.”

Expectedly, Daniel’s already unhappy features contorted, betraying the increase of his loathing disposition. His fists clenched, and Hermione touched his shoulder while tossing John a warning glance. “Tread carefully, John.”

“Indeed,” said Claire, rubbing the space between her brows.

“Is your wife not yours, Dr. Granger? Are your children not your property?”

“My wife and children are mine, yes, Mr. Grey, but they are not property. They are people, and people should not to be possessed.” Daniel glared tiredly at his daughter. “I don’t know why you indulge such men who’ve such dated ideas, Hermione. Draco thought this exact way. Your mother and I raised you to be independent and reasonably progressive. More often than not, you’ve always made us proud. Your choice of boyfriends, however, leave something to be desired.”

“Daddy, I love him!" She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his neck. “I loved them all.”

He wasn’t wrong. Ron, Draco, and John all held, to some extent, varying archaic notions regarding women’s roles in society.

Much to the disbelief of many, Ron and she didn’t break up because he wanted her to become the next Molly Weasley. On the contrary, Ron had no qualms regarding Hermione’s career aspirations, nor did he expect or want her to birth a Quidditch team worth of broom-huggers. Though his basic needs were always accounted for like food, water, and clothes; parental support and affection were often lacking in his childhood. In the sea of talented and charismatic children he was born into, he felt overlooked and undervalued. He hadn’t wanted that for his offspring and felt the way to help prevent it from happening was to have two, maybe three, children at the most.

However, the when to start having those two to three had been a sore point between them. He didn’t want to start a family right away after their marriage but once she obtained her four-year degree. She wanted to wait until her late thirties after achieving all her other goals. He argued—and not invalidly—that he’d be too old and too cranky to be fathering babies at such an age, and she’d be ‘too bloody busy running this godforsaken country to be birthing babies’.

Also, he did verbalize his preference on her staying home with the kids until they were off to primary school. Which she understood but wouldn’t make any promises. Helena Granger worked part-time during Hermione’s younger years and never felt slighted by it.

It wasn’t the reason they parted but one of many. They could’ve compromised and fired up their baby-making factory in their late twenties. Nonetheless, she was not meant to marry him. He was meant for someone else, and she had no regrets and neither did he.

Draco, unlike Ron, hadn’t wanted children and perceived them as something to be postponed for as long as possible. However, he regarded Hermione as his. He was possessive and hateful about her job. He knew her being a part of Blaise Zabini’s Wizarding Hit Squad was not a cushy career choice. Her husband yearned to allow herself be placed under a bell jar as The Beast would keep his enchanted, yet delicate wilting rose.

But he would’ve been content with her changing the world for the better by settling cozily behind a desk, guarded by a warded door and a security team consisting of his most trusted men.

Himself and maybe Blaise.

“My darling girl,” her father murmured adoringly, patting her on the back. “I don’t care.”

Dean stifled a snort which did nothing to hide his grimacing grin and sent an apologetic side-eye to John who was deservingly exasperated.

“Now, Fran—I mean, Dr. Granger,” Claire said, her tone reproving and familiar. “Do consider Hermione’s perspective.”

Hermione deflated against him, groaning. She clung to her father though a part of her wanted to clamor away and call him out on his unfair attitude. As her loving dad, despite his misguided stance to protect her, he was the embodiment of comfort and support. A faint aroma of Old Spice warmed her nose, and she burrowed her face into his chest.  “Why are you like this, Daddy?”

“You’ll understand soon enough when you become a parent yourself. Besides,” he parted from her just enough to look into her eyes. “You can’t have a life here—”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But—”

“You can maybe be two or three things here, Hermione. You can be a Lady to a Lord and mother to this Willie boy who both may very well die in less than a decade. You remember what is to come for him and people like him—”

“I beg your pardon!” bellowed John, rising from his chair.

“—People like him who will oppress and kill many of your ancestors. Do not forget the unwarm welcome our French ancestors received after their own revolution. They will come to England hungry, hoping for a quiet life and jobs which would feed their families. What they will get from people like this man you’ve allowed into your bed and heart is starving rations, cheap liquor, overly priced produce, infrequent crops, lung disease, and false promises of aid should they disavow their Catholicism. What they got were harrowing hardships which brought them to the brink of death many times over, and their children and their children's children went to poor houses. Work houses, Hermione. Do I need to remind you of your grandfather? Do I need to remind you what kind of man he turned out to be because of them?"

"No." She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut in hopes of blocking out her late grandpa's drunken, yet vivid rehashings on Christmas Eve of what his traumatic youth was like.

"As for my granddaughter, she will be nothing but a lowly pawn in the royal court. A brood mare to ensure good relations between genteel families. But you and the baby can be so much more back home—”

“Daddy, I’m coming home.” Hermione slammed her palms on the table crossly. Frustrated tears burned in her eyes, and she choked back a sob. “You don’t need to persuade me. You don’t need to be cruel. I was never going to stay. I was going to sneak away tonight for Alexandria and sail to Scotland.” With a heavy heart, she turned to John, repressing the urge to reach out towards him despite him being on the precipice of losing his shit. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, John.”

Moments ticked by, thick with awkwardness and anger. Eventually, Dean slapped his legs and rose. “Well, I don’t know about you two, Dr. Granger and Dr. Fraser, but I could use a drink. Maybe two.”

“Or three,” agreed Claire.

“I’m staying—” Daniel tried.

“I think not, mate,” Dean said endearingly at the man as a patient parent would a precious, fussy toddler who refused to nap. “These two need to talk privately—”

“I’m her father.”

“I understand.” Dean nodded slowly. “I do, but they’re never going to get everything out into the open if you’re breathing down her neck and attempting to murder Lord John with eye-contact alone.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” said Claire, brows raised, and she put her hands on her hips. “I agree with Mr. Thomas. This is something they should discuss privately.” She attempted a comforting smile towards John. “And you’ll understand why Hermione must leave.”

Still, Daniel wanted to argue. “But—”

“Please,” croaked Hermione, casting wet, doe eyes at him.

Daniel’s unhappy face dissolved in defeat, and he cupped her wet face. “Sweetheart, I can’t chance him trying to woo you with promises of balls, gowns, and visits to Court to meet that imbecile who can’t leave his wife the hell alone.”

Hermione snorted damply. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t care about those things. Or…well, most of those things.” She frowned down at her rather exquisite attire for a simple, spring afternoon and quietly confessed, “I like pretty dresses sometimes.”

“You like pretty, expensive dresses sometimes.” He enveloped her into an embrace once more, resting his chin on her head. “Let’s not forget your periwinkle dress.”

“Now you’re sounding like Mum. You got me that dress, Daddy, and happily so since it was my very first dance.”

“Well, it was five hundred pounds, Button.”

“Excuse me!” balked John, coughing. He fisted his chest. “Five hundred pounds for a dress?”

“Oh, my God,” said Claire. “That’s a bloody car right there!”

“Inflation,” Hermione retorted at Claire.

“—and that was before it was tailored,” finished Daniel. “Look, Button, if I don’t bring you home, your mother will take to the bed and won’t get out of it. Not this time.”

Her chest tightened at the imagery of Helena Granger in bed, listless and depressed. All the while, Isaac and Josh galloped around her, causing mayhem she couldn’t bother stopping.

“Don’t worry.”

“Even so, I want you to remember what you’ve been without for over a year,” he said, reluctantly letting her go to retrieve something shiny and purple from his pack on the bedside table.

Dear Jesus in Heaven! It was a Caramello!

“Oh, my God, Daddy, thank you,” she blubbered, a rush of hormones flooding her system.

Chapter Text

The moment the door closed, announcing the blessed departure of Dr. Granger, Mr. Thomas, and Dr. Fraser; John braced himself against the table, his eyes and filled with dissent in her direction. His lowering gaze turned quizzical at the purple item in her hands.

Hermione chose to sit down, gently tearing open the wrapper. Breaking off a piece, she presented it to her lover in offering.

“This is a Cadbury Caramello chocolate bar,” she introduced. “It’s one of my favorite confections. I would like you to try it before we get into the thick of things. Even this small piece will be unlike anything you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

His pretty lips distorted in an impatient snarl. “I’m in no mood for sweets, Hermione.”

“Shall I speak about all the unholy activates you requested of me since your return from Boston, and how I obliged you despite not being always being in the mood the last ninety-six hours?” She laid a single, dark brown chunk on the table and slid it towards him before breaking off another for herself. “I won’t talk until you’ve tried it.”

She chomped down into her own square, her tongue tingling as saliva swamped her mouth. Like one of those idiotic women on the telly commercials, she closed her eyes in provocative relish. Goosebumps shot down her legs and fireworks exploded behind her eyes.

She couldn’t help but giggle like spoiled-rotten little girl on Christmas Day, and inside her shoes, her toes curled. Really, it had been too long.

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve had chocolate, and it’s not that spectacular,” huffed John, finally picking up his square and studying it pejoratively before snapping off a careful half from it. Stringy, droopy caramel limped onto his bottom lip, and he licked it whilst chewing. After a moment, his working jaw stilled, and he examined the partially eaten candy between his browning fingers and then the purple wrapper from where it came. His pupils enlarged.

“What the fuck is this?” he hissed, both awed and disturbed.

“Chocolate with sugar and lots of it.” She rotated the wrapper and skimmed the fine wording. “This particular bar is from Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?” John blinked slowly.

“Yes.”

“Pennsylvania doesn’t produce chocolate this fine, Hermione. If they did, it wouldn’t taste like this.” He tossed his remaining shard of chocolate into his mouth.

“They don’t now,” she said. “But one day there’ll be large establishments built to mass produce chocolate bars like this. One of them will be in Birmingham. Would you like another?”

He mouthed Birmingham, perplexed, and then said, “Please.”

She snapped off another square and handed it to him. This time he didn’t chew, but appeared to swirl it behind closed lips, savoring the flavor. Once he’d finished, the tightness of his shoulders visibly relaxed, and he joined her at the table where she poured him a fresh cup of tea.

Gulping down the bohea, he said, “It’s very sweet. Almost sickening. I don’t think I can handle any more of it just now. We can save it for later. I think Willie would like some and maybe Dottie, as well.”

Her heart leapt inside her chest at the mention of ’we’ and Willie. He not only still saw them as a ‘we’, but his ‘we’ also included Willie.

Caramello hadn’t failed her.

Pleasurable as the chocolate was, though, it did nothing to ease her headache nor the subtle shifting of her vision. The tea somewhat helped as did the other fixings on the tray, but the pulsing sensation returned with vengeance.

“I can’t eat any more, either,” she said, smiling. “I used to eat two whole ones a day, but that was well over a year ago and only during my flux. I had a higher tolerance for sugar before I came here to this time. Large amounts of sugar and salt are in everything where I’m from. ”

“Birmingham,” said John, this time aloud. “Should I ask if you’ve been there, will you answer me honestly?”

She nodded. “There are few places in the United Kingdom I haven't been. It's my true birthplace after all.”

He stared at her, his expression carefully schooled. “Have you even been to Greece?”

“Christakos is my mother's maiden name. She was born in Athens, so I've family there. We’re not close, but we visit them at the occasional wedding or holiday. My parents and I used to go all the time for Christmas before I went off to boarding school”

“That’s a great distance for just weddings and holidays.”

“Travelling is much easier and faster in the future. And safer, depending on where you’re going.”

“And you can…you can just appear there should you wish?” he asked, referring to their earlier conversation in the hallway.

“Yes…and no. I’ve limits on the distance. The further I venture, the more dangerous it becomes for me. But there will be other ways to get places.” Biting her lip, Hermione shifted in her seat and poured herself another cup of tea. “I’ve been here before, this land, that is. Not Lynchburg. This is my first time in Virginia. I’ve been to New York and Massachusetts. Florida, as well. I’ve been to places—further west— where The Crown hasn’t reached and never will.”

“So Spain and France will remain in control of those regions,” John said, nodding.

"Well...no."

His brows sprang upwards, intrigued. "Then who, my dear? Is the land completely abandoned by the Papists and left to the natives."

“Um…John, I don’t think it’s wise for me right now or ever to go into specifics—”

“Dear God, it’s that bad.”

“—but I will say the colonies and western territories will change immensely in the next two-hundred and fifty years. Everything as you know it will become unrecognizable.”

John blankly stared at her.

“On the other hand, there will be parts of London which will remain the same,” she said, her tone rushed and optimistic. "Buckingham still stands as does the Tower of London. Westminster, certainly."

“Yes.” His brows knit together. “You said…you said more than once how King George was not your king, Hermione. If you are from the future, then who is?”

“I don’t have a king.” Hermione refilled her teacup. “I have a queen.”

“A queen,” he repeated, a noticeable hint of dubiety in his voice. “There is a lone matriarch on the throne once again.”

Hermione dipped her chin, sipping her tea. She set down her cup and licked her lips. “Queen Elizabeth the Second and unlike the Virgin Queen, mine is married to a prince, so he cannot overrule her. Not that she does much ruling, mind. We’ve Parliament and the Prime Ministers for such matters. However, the Queen has both local and international influence; therefore, degrees of power. Still, she’s more a figurehead for the United Kingdom and her territories than anything else.”

He drummed his fingers on the table’s surface, blue eyes slit. “And do you care for her?”

Bittersweetly laughing, she shrugged. “Not everyone is happy with her or her family. To be perfectly blunt, one…probably two of her offspring are despicable people and unanimously loathed. But Elizabeth is an icon and respected by many who aren’t even under her sovereign. She’s like…like an incredibly old-fashioned grandmother who’s got style and class. You can dislike her and even say she’s not but a pointless front. But you kind of lover her, too. When it’s Christmas and she addresses the nation, so many tune in to hear her speak. Especially if it’s been a year faced with tragedy.”

“Tune in?”

“Oh, yes.” Hermione straightened her spine and nodded keenly, eager to tell him about technological advancements. “In the future, there are ways people can hear and see what’s going on miles and miles away. Even from other countries. Events happening here in The States—"

“The States?”

“—take months arriving to London. In 2010 and 2011, it’s reduced to minutes, seconds even, and is accompanied with real imagery and sound. Not drawings, not paintings, and not hearsay.” Hermione rushed to her father’s nightstand and fetched his Samsung. Thumbing in 0919 to unlock the device, she was directed to the home screen.

“What the devil?” John scooched backwards in his chair, his fists gripping the seat of it. “Is it some sort of weapon.”

“Arguably yes. Most just call it a mobile or cellphone.” Hermione tapped the All-Share app and picked one of several videos downloaded within the last few months. Briefly, she watched it with the sound off and then thought better of showing the footage to John. She wished to amaze him, not distress him. Presenting footage of a Japanize earthquake and tsunami was only going to scare him further.

Exiting out of the video, she saw another and leaned close to John, pressing the triangular icon at the bottom. In the video, her little brothers were in front of an extravagant Iron Man cake littered with eighteen candles. Her mother and father were behind Joshie and Isaac, peppering kisses atop their heads.

Blaise, unseen, impressively and dramatically crooned Happy Birthday. He must've been the one filming them.

Yes, Hermione belatedly affirmed, thinking of her father's silly comment from earlier. I will get full custody of him in the divorce. 

John let out a strangled noise when watching the video. His eyes were bulging out of his head, and he looked on the brink of shouting sorcery at the top of his lungs.

“Is this magic?” he squeaked when the video came to an end. He snapped his gaze away from screen, visibly overwhelmed and overstimulated.

Hermione shook her head. “This is purely innovative science, and it’s called a video. Stemmed from Latin’s videre.”

Pressing his lips together in a firm, perturbed line. A beat passed and he asked, “Who are these boys in the…video?”

“My younger brothers.”

Unsurprisingly, he shot her a dubious glance. “One of your many?”

“I lied about having so many brothers,” she admitted. “Another ruse to go along with my fictional narrative. You were asking a lot of hard questions, which are valid here, but not so much where I'm from. To be honest, you and everyone else would be considered nosy and extremely rude for asking questions about my marriage, lack of children, and lack of dowery. Dowries are a rare thing in Anglo-Europe. I was born an only child into a financially well-off home and remained as such for over twenty years. What I had was a wedding fund, but that's irrelevant. These two boys, though, really are my brothers in the legal sense. They were adopted over eight years ago. Their names are Joshua and Isaac, and they just turned nine in March.”

“Your parents openly adopted black children.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s not completely unheard of in this time, John,” she said, her brows arching. “Although it’s uncommon. Does this offend your Anglo-forward sensitivities?”

“No.” He tore his gaze away from the screen and aggressively shook his head. “I think it’s wonderful. I’m just…this woman—”

“My mum.”

“Who is astoundingly beautiful, by the way.” He dipped his chin as she puffed up her chest in pride. “I can see she loves them dearly. As does your father.”

Hermione dewily grinned. “Well, yes, she does. She actually delivered them.”

John regarded her in interest. “Is she a midwife?”

“She’s had the training, but no. The boys’ birth mother passed not long after she gave birth to them. She’d been in poor health much of her life from an illness of the heart which was exacerbated by her gestation. The labor and birth were too much for her body to handle.”

“And what of their birth father? Did he not want them?”

“He wasn’t there.” Hermione cleared her throat, the subject travelling to touchy territory. “Nor was he known or wanted. The boys’ birth mother was seventeen years old and a victim of repeated sexual violence before coming into my parents’ care.”

Ears pinking once more, John’s nostrils flared. “I dare hope the man responsible was imprisoned if not put to death by drawing and quartering.”

“There were,” Hermione began, resting the phone on the table, “various offenders from what my mother told me. I doubt any of them faced punishment from the legal system. Where it happened, the government was shambles.”

Alarmed by her words, his spine straightened. “This didn’t happen in England, did it?”

“No,” Hermione assured, “No, but rapes still happen everywhere, John, and many justice systems mishandle those crimes. Take Charlotte for instance. Did you know she was violated at thirteen? Did you know she was brave enough to make an accusation against her attacker? What do you think happened to him?” Belatedly, she added, “He was white, by the way.”

John’s cheeks colored, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked away as if personally chastised. “Nothing, I imagine.” He then straightened in his chair, his jaw set. His right hand touched the flintlock holstered at his hip. “Who was it? I will have him dealt with accordingly. I was unable to remedy Jenkins' in a timely manner whilst governing in Jamaica. I will not make the same mistake here.”

Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “She never told me—”

“I’ll order her to tell me, then.”

“—so I persuaded Abigail to tell me.” Hermione gulped her tea followed by a grave exhale. “And he was a Turner, damn it all. Not even a free, white housemaid stood a chance accusing him. Andrew Turner was his name, and he was student attending Collegiate. You can’t conjure a warrant for his arrest because he died this past Christmas when visiting his family for the holidays.”

“Died?” John frowned. “What on earth from? He couldn’t have been older than twenty?”

“He passed on New Year’s Eve. He brought with him from Connecticut a most foul fever and cough. It swept through their household, Mount Josiah, and much of Lynchburg. I was already starting to feel quite ill with the pregnancy, but I powered through in helping nurse the household back to health. We almost lost Little Georgie.”

Looking off to the side, John nodded slowly. “I recall Hal mentioning in his letters how you all were invited to a night of merry at the Turners. Did the boy really seem so unwell?”

“I never saw him,” Hermione lied and perfectly so. “Which was for the best since I would’ve gouged his eyes out given the chance. His mother and physician spoke of how often he succumbed to guttural coughing fits since he got home. It’s not a wonder he lost his”

John exhaled, and it carried a sense of disappointment. “God doth smite…sometimes, but I would’ve really enjoyed lending Him a hand in this situation. Charlotte really is such a sweet girl. How does her marriage fair to Oscar?”

“He’s kind to her,” Hermione said and carefully so.

“But?”

“I’m sure Oscar is a perfectly delightful companion. Physicality-wise, though, she’d been planning to marry a strapping warrior, not a portly poet. Let us not mention, he’s twenty years older than her.”

“He’s a freeman and close to home,” reminded John. “It’s the best she could hope for given the circumstances. We are one of few families in Lynchburg employing freemen families and individuals. Sending her elsewhere would’ve been a great risk to her status and would’ve reduced the chance of her ever seeing her parents and siblings again. Has Charlotte voiced any complaints to you?”

Hermione snorted, rolling her eyes. Charlotte never complained in the traditional sense. She’d make sassy remarks and passive-aggressive comments which were, honestly, kind of funny and cute. Undoubtedly, she had made Abe laugh and maybe even Oscar now, too, with her witty lamentations.

“No. Very few in her family do despite having all the reasons in the world, too. And she’s incredibly special. She forgave him, you know? Andrew Turner, that is. She forgave him for what he did to her?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Her shoulders then slumped. “Well, that’s a lie. I do know. I’ve been…John, don’t be upset, but I’ve been teaching her to read—”

John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For Christ’s sake, will the secrets never end with you! Hermione, you cannot—”

“—and she’s been reading mostly from the Bible. She’s been taught about forgiveness every Sunday since she was a baby, but actually looking at the pages and knowing what those words are saying—”

“You’ve endangered her! The law is clear!”

“It’s a fucking rubbish law—”

“And I fucking know that!” he countered. “But it’s still the law! You’ll get a gentle admonishment, but she could lose her status as a freewomen and receive a fatal flogging—”

“You so much as raise a whip within ten feet of her, and I’ll kill you right then and there, I swear to God.”

“I’m not…” John rubbed his eyes with his middle finger and thumb. “Hermione, it would not be me. I would never.”

“Oh, I don’t buy that you’ve never flogged someone—”

“I’ve never done it to a female.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Of any color or class. Nor will I ever, no matter the crime. But if she’s found out by someone who doesn’t share our sentiments and they are everywhere—some of them we even share a roof with—there’s very little I can do for her that won’t compromise myself, my family, and the estate.”

Balling up her hands, Hermione released a growl. “Perhaps I haven’t been plain enough about myself, but I’m from the future. Slavery as we know it here, in England, and other colonized countries will be abolished. It’s not just unfortunate to me to see how non-Anglo-Saxons, indentured servants, and the lower class are seen. It’s completely foreign to me. This is all history to me, and I’ve been provided a front row seat, and I hate it. It disgusts me. In case it’s escaped your notice, but I’m unapologetically instilling this mindset into Willie and his cousins.”

To which Adam and Henry have eagerly gulped up. When Hermione had difficulty providing reading and number lessons to Charlotte during her early stages of pregnancy, those two boys stepped up and even roped in Abigail as a student. The young men saw no reason why the two girls couldn't have the same education as their younger sister. Unfortunately, their father would not agree, and his sons have taken great measures to keep him from finding out.

“Yes, I’m aware," said John dryly.

Hermione regarded him, wary. “Then you should also know I’ve been teaching them how standing up for what’s right is never easy, nor does it typically bring about popularity. I’ve also taught them they’ve been given a fair-hand in their class which provides them ample opportunities to rub shoulders with lawmakers and vocalize their opinions with the higherups. I should very much like Willie to take his rightful spot in the House of Lords when he comes of age and is done with his schooling—”

“He’s expressed interest in soldiering.”

“He’s also expressed interest in back-talking, not bathing for days on end, not finishing his assignments in a timely manner, nor eating his vegetables. I haven’t put up with such nonsense, and you certainly won’t either.”

“I…” Over her teacup, Hermione watched a wave of something peculiar wash over John’s features, and his blue eyes sparkled. His body visibly relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair. He kicked up a leg to rest on opposite knee. “I can only do what I can as his father, but everyone knows a mother’s influence holds the most weight in a child’s decision-making. You know he holds you in very high regard. It is my understanding, while I was away, he spent most hours of the day caring for you whilst you lay ill in bed. Feeding you, mopping your brow, telling you stories.”

She swiftly chucked the half-empty vessel at him. Truly, it wasn’t her finest, most mature moment in her adult life, but she couldn’t deny the satisfaction she felt at seeing the lukewarm tea splashed all down his frock. He rubbed at his neck where the handle of the cup deftly smacked into.

“Fuck you very much, John Grey.”

“Back to throwing things again when the conversation isn’t turning to your liking,” he said, grabbing a serviette to dab his front. “Whatever is the matter, Hermione? Are you beginning to realize how much more of an impact you have on him than I do? Have you become aware how your absence will impact him dramatically and probably for the worst? I dare imagine he won’t become the man you wish him to be.

“In fact, I very much assume he’ll chuck out the window every moral indoctrination you’ve instilled him simply out of spite and revert to the sunny and most endearing countenance he once sported. Not only will he be a menace, but his opinions on poverty will also regress, and he’ll resume his stand how it’s all the impoverished folks’ fault. If they weren’t too busy drinking and fornicating, they’d all be just fine. As for slavery, well, that’s just the way of life, isn’t it? Non-Christians, specifically Jews, best be avoided and if they can’t be, then blame them for societies inconveniences. That way, they’ll grasp onto the concept of how unwelcome they are, or just get it over with and finally convert.”

“You will not in any circumstance allow him to believe—”

“I’m a busy man, Hermione. As you’ve done admirably in my absence running of Mount Josiah, you can understand how time consuming it is. I doubt there are any viable women in the colonies who can provided a decent education for Willie, so I best put the responsibility on Louisa—”

“No!”  Hermione leapt to her feet, and blood rushed out of her head. Her vision slanted slightly, and she caught herself by laying her palm flat on the table. Her knees weakened, and she fell back down in her chair.

John's haughty expression morphed into concern, and he leapt to her, hands raised. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, frustrated. Something wasn't quite right, but it's nothing a good, long nap and a back rub couldn't fix. "I think I'm just tired. You are exhausting me, John Grey."

Naturally, his worry over her sprinted away at her accusation. "I'm exhausting you. Need I recite the kind of day I've had, and shall I point at the culprit responsible? You've razed your carefully constructed mound of lies and replaced them with a towering mountain of your ludicrous truths."

"They're not my truths, John. They are simply facts."

The corners of John’s mouth quirked, and his drumming fingers stilled. Brightness glimmered brightly in his sky-blue orbs. “I see. Well, then tell me more about this factual England of yours. Does she prosper under your queen?”

Hermione cautiously examined John’s features and assessed his tone. It was a touch on the condescending side of the spectrum, and she glared at him, irritated. Did he not believe her? She showed him her father's cellphone and the video on it. He saw her wand and how she disappeared into nothing. What more could he want?

Although, could she really blame him for being hesitant in swallowing her tale? There was concrete evidence, yes, but even to her, a witch who’d seen and done so much—even dabbling in time-travel herself—jumping backwards two hundred plus years was preposterous. She might as well have told him she wasn't from planet Earth at all but an extraterrestrial from a different galaxy. It would’ve evoked similar responses.

“The UK is not without folly and never will be. Not in my lifetime.” She reached for his hand, resting her own on it, and was relieved he didn’t shirk her. His fingers were warm beneath her own, and she caressed his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. If he still had more question about her life and time, she’d answer them. “You heard what my father said about the workhouses and poor houses. They are no longer around, and it wasn’t so long ago they were closed for good. In comparison to now and what she’ll become in the 21^st century, her people are doing all right because they are given ample opportunities. The fracturing of the Class System ensures it.”

John’s lips parted, she felt him bristle.

“Sounds extreme and perhaps even dangerous,” she said. “But it’s necessary. If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be where I am. I wouldn’t have had the life I was born into. My father got to become a first generation, university graduate. His father was both a farmer and a miner. He could barely read and write, and his wife couldn’t do either in English or her native French. His grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on were much of the same stock, made up of miners and farmers in Cornwall. Many of them passed away before they reached their fifties.”

“What changed it?” asked John, his tone strained. “It sounds all well and good, Hermione. Yet, altering culture is done by socioeconomic upheaval, and that brings bloodshed.”

Hermione averted her gaze. Were they really going to discuss this? Out of everything they ought to talk about, this really shouldn't be one of the very first things. But if this was direction their conversation was going, she'd follow in suit. She wanted him to be comfortable in talking to her. “True. A war will come.”

“England is always at war,” he said bitterly. “Is she not at war where you come from? Does the Crown finally rest, even for a spell?”

“Never,” she said, morose. “This war I’m speaking of was on a grand, international tier of chaos.”

“Most wars are.”

“Not like this one. It was so wicked, the countries involved agreed to take a nap and start again when the next generation had grown just enough to barely handle weaponry. It may not seem so dissimilar to what you’ve seen and perhaps it’s not.” Her voice trembled and cracked. “You are right, though. There was a price to be paid for the ladders, so those beggars and rabble could climb out of their gutters.”

“Have the aristocracy and gentry become extinct?”

“No, but they’ve been on the decline for a century. From now until my time, many prominent families will die out, lose their fortunes, titles, and estates. They’ll be forced to sell off or abandon their lands. It happens here as you, so of course, it will happen in the future.”

“And what of the Grey legacy? What of the Melton and Parldoe titles?”

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed and lips parted. Trepidation hit her in the solar plexus, for this was not a discussion she ever envisioned having with John. When she learned more of him and his brother's title and his family home, she refused to dwell too long on it. What good would it do to fret over a legacy she had no idea how would end, just only knowing it would. 

“By all means,” John said, pained, “don’t stress yourself by assuring me all will be well for those of Argyle.”

She exhaled, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “I don’t…I don’t recall any Lord Meltons, Greys, or Dukes and Duchesses of Pardloe. As for the Argyle estate—”

“Yes? Does it still stand?”

Hermione hesitantly dipped her chin. “The estate was abandoned in the 1920s. Twenty years later, a large section of it…” She paused, The Blitz catapulting to forefront of her mind. She didn't want to tell him about the damage Germany would do to Britain. Currently and for many years to come, the UK and Germany were allies. No good could come from telling him about the air raids, bombings, Hitler orchestrating mass genocide, and how the Allies were powerless to stop it for many years. John would be troubled and argue why and how it was impossible to be at such horrendous odds with the home country of the Hanovers.  But if he truly wanted to know and chose to believe all she had to say, then she'd tell him, provide comfort in whatever means necessary, and in any way he'd allow her. “Do you really want to hear this, darling?”

She wondered how much of the World Wars Claire told Jamie. Codependent as they were, she couldn't imagine Claire not detailing everything to him. On the other hand, from what Hermione understood of Jamie, she envisioned him seeing it as unnecessary to know every miserable aspect. He had his own history to live through and fight for. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, perceptibly irked. “Do you think me so sensitive I can’t handle what is to come of my family home? You’ve already told me there’s no legacy—”

“That I know of,” she interjected. “And, sure, if you associate a legacy with possessing a title, then there isn’t a Lord or Lady Grey. There’s no one who bears the name of Pardloe—”

“And you’re sure? What about in Parliament? Are you familiar with all the aristocracies o-or gentry?”

Her brows arched at his incredulous tone. “I don’t want to bother telling you anything more about the future at all if you’re not going to believe me. You’ll think me insane, cruel, or both. Besides, this war I'm talking about isn't even the one you should agonize over.”

His chuckle was mirthless and sharp. “I just can’t fathom the name will die out. My brother has four children. Three of them boys. They are healthy and robust. Even if they or Dottie don’t have sons of their own, you and I…”

Hermione arched her brows. “Yes?”

“Well,” he sputtered, gesturing frantically, “what of our legacy, Hermione?”

She rested a gloved hand on her bump. “I'm certain we are having a daughter, and she won’t be born here. Or was my father unclear on his intentions?”

Displeased by her words, he hit his palm on the table’s surface once more, causing the China to rattle. Hermione thought he was going to put up a stink about her leaving, but what he said next caused her jaw to hit the floor.

“And what about after? Perhaps I’m being presumptuous, but I’d like a second child and possibly a third. So long as your health remains—”

Laughing maniacally, Hermione shook her head. “There’s not going to be any more children.”

“Whyever not?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.

“Because! Because I’m going home, and that's always been the plan. I told you this before you left for Boston. Before we married. I’ve been planning—”

“I love you,” he told her in the same way a person might say they love swallowing and shitting out thumb tacks. "And have for some time..." he finished weakly.

Hermione leant back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“No, you don’t. You just want the baby." She forced herself to remain calm despite her temper being tested to its limits. How dare he throw this lie at her because matters weren't unfolding to his liking?

In hindsight, how could she be upset with him for it? She'd be most unhappy and even scorned if he showed volatile disinterest in the child. He'd join the Lynchburgs Swine in the sty if he wasn't behaving a gentleman about the entire situation.

"For Christ's sake, of course I want the baby, Hermione!" he hissed. "Is it so wrong to want her? To love her already and look forward to the day I can hold her in my arms. And I do like you. You know I do, and you know I want you. You want me and say you love me. Our relationship is new, yes, but there is promise, Hermione. So much promise. So much potential. I am a better man because of you. When I was in Boston, I'll be honest, there were times I could've strayed from our vows, but I didn't. Was there temptation? Maybe, but not enough to bring the discretion home to you. Nothing in Boston or anywhere in this world is titillating enough for me to suffer your wrath, break your heart, and disgrace my honor. Do I love you? Really love you? Perhaps I do but in a way which is foreign to me. I only recognize how much I care for you, adore you, yearn for you and how...how I am perfectly satisfied in not feeling those emotions for anyone else for the rest of my life. Men and women have entered into marriages built on a more cracked foundation, so no, I don't see what the problem is and why you must leave.  If Claire really is from the future, too, then she made a choice to be here for Jamie. Can you not make the same choice for me? For Willie? I-I cannot begin to explain the sacrifice on my part in keeping to our marital vows for the rest of my life, but what is the consequence of compromise but a blessed and happy marriage."

Her vision clouded from unshed tears, but they weren't entirely from sadness. They were from fury. Frustration. He was purposefully targeting her weak spots, unapologetically prodding them with brutal fingers. He was telling her all the things any sensible woman would want to hear, yet...it hardly mattered if his words stemmed from genuine place. She couldn't let it matter. The fact he was telling her now and not days ago when he got home or even in the letter he wrote whilst away was evidence he was clamoring. John knew her decision to leave was made. But she was firm as he was desperate, and desperate people make desperate claims in the heat of the moment to get their way.

"John, it's...astoundingly embarrassing how quickly I fell in love with you. How quickly I went from friendly affection to making room for you in not just my body, but my heart. I truly thought I'd remain bitter and scorned much longer than I was. You quite literally charged into my realm of intimacy without so much as an 'I like you more than just an employee', and I warned you it wouldn't end well. You refused to take heed, I gave in to my baser self, we were not responsible in our love-making, and here we are. Our separation now will be so much more agonizing and if I did stay, you must realize what you'd be asking of me. I'd be sacrificing so much more than Claire did. I'd be walking away from my parents, my brothers, my godchildren. I'd be betraying my own instinct in keeping my daughter the hell out of this century. John, I can't control how you feel or how you'll take my absence, but please know if I stayed, I'd come to resent my life here. Resent you. My mind would be in constant state of worry over the welfare of my family. And I do believe my father would drop dead of a heart stroke if I told him I was staying, so please...please stop fighting me on this and take comfort our baby will have the best, most exquisite life."

John opened his mouth to indubitably spout how he had a right and say of where their daughter's future would be, but she cut him off.

"My dad was not off the mark when relaying how our daughter's life will be if she stays here."

"It's a good life," countered John. "And you can't deny it. She'd be a lady by birth, a step-sister and parttime ward to an Earl once Willie is of age, and highly favored by the Pardloes. Not to mention, she'd be beautiful and brilliant like her mother. She'd capture many hearts and have many influential, rich suitors bowing at her feet. In all but title, she'd have the same respect and elegance as any one of the king's daughters."

Hermione forced a smiled, feeling worn thin and tired. "With me, our daughter can go to university and graduate. She may go again. And again. And one more time if she'd like. She can vote at elections and verbalize her dismay at her sovereign without consequence. If she would like to become a politician, then she can. If she'd like to become a doctor, then she can. If she'd like to have a quiet life on a farm with sheep and cows, then she can. If she should not want to marry or have children, then she can. Don't you want those liberties for her and if you like me like you say you do, don't you want that for me?"

"I've been abundantly clear what I want for you and from you, Madam." John regarded her darkly but not unkindly. Much like when he arrived at Mount Josiah post-Boston, stepped out of his carriage that early afternoon, saw her waiting for him in front of the house.

Her baby bump visible beneath her newest frock.

He had said his quick hellos to his kin, hugs and presents for Willie, and then hastily escorted to their now shared quarters where he had his wicked way with her. Months of celibacy and fidelity erupted from him, and he didn't allow her to leave the bedroom until the following morning.

“I don’t want you to leave, Hermione, and I want to be a father to our child. I want you to live here as my wife. You may not have the same freedoms and opportunities, but we can be a family with Willie. We can be happy. I know I will be and my joy has been incomparable these last few days. No one has sucked me off even half as exquisitely as you have, and there’s nothing comparable in watching you succumb to pleasure.”

“Aside from elephant in the room of me having to leave, how could we truly be happy with all the unknown still between us? What we have was built on secrets and lies, and I can’t unsee how you looked at me when you found out Claire knew the truth, John. One would think finding out I’m not at all a widow but a scorned wife would’ve been the deal-breaker. However, me confiding in a friend is too much to bear.”

“Right,” said John, his voice barely above a whisper. He massaged his forehead. "Right. You did that."

“I would’ve thought this revelation would’ve been more cataclysmic to our relationship given my husband's alive and tried to kill me,” she said. “It is how I got here to this time.”

Shock and then incredulity twisted his face. “I find that hard to believe.”

“By coming here through a time portal?”

“I’m willing to give the benefit of the doubt. What I don’t support is your husband trying to kill you, and you favor him by insisting you wear his ring.”

She removed her lace gloves, momentarily grimacing at the slight puffiness of her fingers before touching Draco’s family ring. “I can’t remove it. It’s magically bonded to me. If it wasn’t, and I could remove it...”

“You would've sold it for passage elsewhere, I assume,” he said in frigid doubt.

She winced. “I love Draco’s ring. Just as much as I love yours. It’d break me to part with either one of them.”

Dread swirled in her belly. Would John want his ring back? God, the thought of parting with it or Draco’s made her nauseous and beyond frightened.

She didn't simply love Draco’s ring for its beauty but what it represented. Draco was a Lord and a Pureblood; she was middle-class and a Muggle-Born. Wearing his grandmother’s wedding ring was thumbing their noses at, not just his ancestors’ judgment, but his parents, too.

And she loved John’s ring because it was his and had clearly meant something to dear to him. He could’ve fashioned a bit of brass for her, borrowed from Minnie, or promised her a band eventually. Instead, he gave her something of his. Something Hermione assumed was incredibly special to him. Valuable. And he chose to give it to her.

"Even so," she carried on. "When I return home, he and I will not be together anymore. He’s in prison for what he’s done to me and will be there for a very long time.”

“You’ll seek a divorce? I dare say, if he attempted to murder you, it is fair ground, and any idiot in Parliament would agree.”

“The answer to that is complicated—”

“It’s a yes or no question. The fact you can’t simply answer yes like a normal, slighted wife would, then I’m led to think you won’t.”

Hermione contemplated whether she should make John privy to her plans upon returning to the 21^st century.

“You won’t divorce him,” he stated before she could answer, his Adam’s apple quivering. “I don’t know why I should care, or even see how it matters. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here with me and Willie. Even if by some chance you weren’t, I’ll be long dead when—”

Like a silly ninny, she threw herself at his feet, arms resting on his lap. “Don’t say such things, John.”

He stood from his chair and walked away to peel back the curtain and peer out the window. Her arms collapsed on the empty seat, warm from his spectacular bottom. “My father shares your concern about me divorcing him, but think how impossible it is to achieve here. Even more so among the aristocracy. Draco was...is a Lord. When I married him, he came with a contract, and I signed it. I pledged myself to him for all my life.”

“Many contracts possess at least one loophole, Hermione,” said John, still not looking at her but at the street below. “Attempted murder of a spouse should be one of them.”

“Out of all the caveats my father-in-law planned for, murder wasn’t one of them. Even so, to get a divorce means both Draco and I must agree upon it. Getting Draco to oblige will be the most challenging hurdle.”

“He tried to kill you. It speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

Hermione rose to her feet and approached John, her fingers wringing. “He won’t give me up so easily. He loves me and has for over ten years, but his love became overbearing. Twisted. Corrupted. I only realized it too late. His goal was to go back in time and prevent all sorts of things which would happen to me. Not even just the big, horrible things like how I was maimed and scarred but the little things. Those little things…not all of them were bad. They were just normal like the first boy I liked, the first time I held a boy's hand, my first heartbreak, my first kiss, my first time having sex. Draco wanted to stop me from experiencing those milestones with someone who wasn’t him. He thought should he kill me, the person he loves the most, the time portal would see him worthy of his quest, and he could change everything.”

John pivoted on his heel to face her, brows raised. He lowered his gaze to where she was resting a hand over her ribs, and his jaw ticked. Perhaps he imagined a world where Draco succeeded. John would’ve never met her, nor known about her. There would’ve been no baby.

“I understand wanting to prevent any kind of hurt you've suffered, but they are a part of you. I would’ve never tried to kiss you all those months ago simply because you are attractive.  Every rock and dip on the road and every broken wheel you've dealt with has made you who you are. Should you have not your experiences, you would not be you. You would not be a woman...the woman I'd want to spend the rest of my life with.”

"John," she huffed, encircling her arms around him. She squished her face into his chest and muffled, “Must you be so insufferably perfect?”

"This man is utterly insane as is his motive and the entire story. Time portals." He snorted and wrapped his arms around her. "In Hispaniola."

The warmth of his body around against her, and she really did just love so much. Regardless of how she had to break her own heart by leaving him and Willie, she was glad to have known them.

And crazy as it sounded, she was so grateful to have his child. The pregnancy was hell, but she'd do it again if it mean she got to keep such a wonderful reminder of John.

“And Scotland,” added Hermione, unhelpfully. "I also found out there's one in North Carolina. It's how my father and Dean got here."

"Of course.” He rested his chin atop her head. “Makes perfect sense."

Sighing somberly, she slumped against him like a beaten ragdoll. “I still have yet to tell you the worst part.”

“Dear God, what could be worse?“

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve told no one about this. Not my father and not Claire. Not even my mother knows this.”

John stared down at her, visibly on the verge of hysterical bemusement. “I’m sure I’ll feel profoundly blessed in what you are about to share with me, Madam.”

Her eyes fluttered shut at his sharp sarcasm. Taking a minute, she gathered her courage and prepared herself for the fallout.

“To fulfill the contract and achieve a divorce, I must have child with Draco.”

A deadly waft of quietness filled the room, and she thought better than trying to plug it with any further explanation. No amount of words were going to help John process this information and if he had questions, he was welcome to ask.

But he didn't.

In fact, he did exactly as she both feared and expected. He let go of her and promptly left. Though he did force out a pained, "Forgive me, Hermione, I must...I must take my leave now,” before slamming the door behind him.

Resting against her father's bed and gripping the poster, tears of anguish clouded her vision. 

What more could she have hoped for?

For a minute, she allowed her most intimate, yet silly wishes come to the forefront of her mind. The ones too decadent. Too selfish. Too entitled. Even for her.

She had once said to John, “Fuck the rules. If they are not in my favor, I don’t like them and I don’t care for them. I want it all, so I will have it all.”

"But I can't have this," she whispered.

Hermione decided then she would return to Mount Josiah and with her father. If she went alone, John in his anger and betrayal might let her leave, but Hal wouldn't. Dr Daniel Granger would need to be there acting as his charming, fatherly self for Pardloe to understand he wasn't simply there to ensure her well-being but to take her home.

She must bid a formal farewell to John, Willie, and the rest of the household. She wouldn’t stay the night but return here to River Inn. They'd leave early in the morning for Ocracoke. Should their travels go smoothly, Hermione would be residing in her mother's arm by the start of May and never vacate them again.

Wishing to see her marriage license again in preparation to remind John she hadn't legally signed the document and they weren’t really married, she retrieved her father’s Samsung from the table. The home screen popped into view, and she touched the Gallery app and scrolled, smiling at seeing photos of her mum and the twins.

Hermione found hers and John's document archived in Mid-November and went to click on it but paused when an October photograph in the corner caught her attention. Enlarging the other image with a tap of her thumb, a colonial family portrait filled the screen, and her breath caught in her throat.

"Oh, my God."

Chapter Text

Carrying tin cups of whiskey and ale, Daniel Granger and Dr Fraser joined Dean at the table. He was skimming the letter he’d found. The neatly folded piece of lined college ruled paper had been tightly folded into an origami envelope and stuffed into a plastic sandwich baggy. Said sandwich baggy was pressed beneath the velvet inside the open wooden box left on the Frasers’ table. Atop the square of black velvet was an unassuming pouch where a fucking Time-Turner was stowed.

In one hand, Dean clutched the pouch. In the other was the letter, and his brows jumped towards his hairline at what he read.

Sickly chills shot up his spine.

“I talked to the barkeep,” said Claire, sitting down. “He said he saw Jamie and a soldier leave about twenty minutes ago. Are those some herbs Jamie left for me? In the little bag?”

“Uh…no. But do you think something’s wrong?” asked Dean evenly, taking great care with his tone as to not worry Dr. Fraser or Daniel, despite his own internal panic.

She picked up the scribbly note Mr. Fraser left for her which excused his absence. The man went to conduct trades with the natives alongside a Powhatan Indian agent and would return shortly with even more medicinal herbs and tonics than what he bought at the apothecary.

Dean rather thought this was a load of toshy shit. Something was up, and it was bad.

“I want to know why he left now without speaking with me. It doesn’t sit well he went off like this. Not only that, but I could’ve also added to my shopping list what I’d like from the Powhatan should they have the items I’d like. I probably would’ve gone with him. For God’s sake, he could be gone until tomorrow or the day after.” She huffed and sipped at her whiskey. “What’s in the pouch if it’s not herbs?”

“Gemstones,” Dean said, though it was only a partial truth. He received troubled looks from Claire and Daniel as he reached towards the letter and tucked it and the pouch into the man’s pocket. “I’ll have you look after them while I track down Mr. Fraser. There’s a fine piece of jewelry in there among the gems I think Hermione would like and a missive for you, Dan.”

“Gemstones?” questioned Claire. “From where? From who?”

Dan frowned at Dean, removing the letter from his pocket to read it. Claire, ever the busybody, observed over his shoulder, her critical leopard gaze skimming the words.

Halfway through the letter, Dan glanced at Dean incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

“I…” Dean refrained from letting Dan and Claire know of his doubts regarding on where both letters came from. “I’m just as shocked.”

“What is a Time-Turner?” asked Claire. “And who is this Nott who left if for you?”

Dean downed his tin of ale, which tasted not unlike yeasty piss, purposefully evading the question. “Don’t show Hermione the letter or the Time-Turner just yet, Dan. I need some answers, and I think Mr. Fraser may have a few them. I think I best go see where he—”

“I’ll go with you,” Dan said, moving to stand.

“So will I,” said Claire.

Dean shook his head no. “Hermione and John will follow us if you two come. It’s best you both stay here. Dr. Fraser, do you have an item of your husband’s he may’ve bled on. I’ll need it to find him.”

“I…” Claire snorted, the sound soft and mirthless. “Yes. Yes, I’m not short of those. My husband has a habit of hurting himself.” Her brows arched, intrigued. “Are you going to do magic? Like Hermione?” She clocked Dan, eyeing him speculatively. “Can you do magic, Dr. Granger?”

The man lifted his chin. “No.”

Dean’s quirked his lips. So Dan was still going to pretend he and the weird blue light pouring from his hands didn’t heal that boy in Halifax?

“What about her mother?”

The corner of Dan’s mouth ticked. “In her own way, yes.”

“But like Hermione?” asked Claire.

Clearly uncomfortable with the question, Dan huffed and clasped his fingers together, resting them on the table. “My daughter’s abilities are…unique.”

“Mr. Thomas here can do them, apparently.”

“He’s unique, as well.” At this, Dan clapped Dean on the shoulder affectionately. “And a fine lad. You’ll not meet a more loyal, honorable bloke. A shame my daughter and him never gave it a good try.”

Like many from his male-cohort at Hogwarts in the 2006, Dean would’ve willingly plundered his OWLs if it meant he got a right and proper snog from the Hermione Granger.

Alas, she was practically untouchable that year and the ones following. The only one mad enough at school to go after the Chosen One’s platonic darling was Mclaggen. Dean may’ve not ever had a real crush on her, but he wasn’t an idiot. All the goons and bullies at school said what they wanted about her, but the truth was, not even those stiff and staticky curls were going to hide that sweet, pretty face. The Hogwarts arseholes knew it. Dean knew it. Ron knew it…eventually. Anyhow, had she shown even the slightest amount of interest in Dean, he would’ve gone for it headfirst, Ron’s subconscious crush on her be damned.

“Ah, what could’ve been,” said Dean, chuckling. “But I’ve no regrets how things unfolded for me and despite Hermione having one hell of year, I’d be surprised if she had any either. Babies’ll do that. Make you think all kinds of nightmares are worth it.” A slow, beaming grin split his face. “Hey, fifty quid if it’s a granddaughter.”

Expectedly, Dan laughed, vivid anticipation written on his face. “A very bright silver-lining in all of this.” His cheeks flushed and he sent an embarrassed glance to Claire. “I’ve been wanting for a grandbaby for a long time.”

“Oh.” A mixture of emotions fluttered over Claire’s pale face, eventually settling for a strained, confused expression. “Hermione told me how she and her husband chose not to have children. I imagine their decision made you and your wife feel slighted.”

Dan opened his palms in somber defense, his shoulders slumped. “I thought for sure they’d have children right away. I even foolishly believed she was already pregnant when she and Draco eloped. It would’ve been the one good thing to come from all that. Now I’m genuinely grateful they didn’t have any.”

“Maybe a child would’ve steadied your son-in-law.”

Giving her a meaningful look, Dan asked, “Do you have children, Dr. Fraser?”

Claire blinked at the question, surprised. “I have a daughter.”

“And did she steady you?”

“Yes,” Claire replied, a little tartly and then seemed to let the inquiry really settle. She tilted her head, her eyes drifting off to the side as if she were remembering something. “Well, temporarily. When she was little. Before she started walking…and talking.”

“Children don’t steady their parents, Dr. Fraser,” supplied Dan. “We must actively choose to be better for them. They rock our boats constantly and would sink our ships if we already didn’t have some semblance of steadiness. Children don’t make us better. They make us tired.”

Claire nodded in agreement, sighing. “Exhausted.”

“Half-dead.”

“All the late nights and early mornings. The flus and colds. The nightmares and the monsters under the bed and in the closet. The last-minute school projects and scuffed knees. Sassing the nuns at school and wearing miniskirts and Go-Go boots to church.” Claire rubbed her brow as her eyelids fluttered shut. “The broken curfews and the tantrums. My God, there were so. Many. Tantrums. I was not prepared for that. Did Hermione have those?”

Dan teetered his head from side-to-side as if weighing memories. “Few and far between. She was…is more apt to stomp away at the best of times or to throw things at the worst. It’s a trait she inherited from her mum. Typically, they are not lethal things. It’s usually something that’s close to them like hairbrushes, throw pillows, a packet of crisps.

“Her mother and I gave Hermione just about anything and everything she wanted and then some. But we were rather strict on her sugar-intake. We only allowed her desserts on Sundays and candies on the holidays. We wanted to set a good dietary example for her.

“Unfortunately, other aspects of our parenting fell to the wayside. She was our miracle baby, so naturally, her mother and I spoiled her rotten. We both stemmed from humble beginnings, and we showered her in everything we never got to have in our own childhood. And when she started displaying extraordinary abilities, we were even more pleased with her, albeit a touch confused. Her mother and I knew she was already special and her being magical proved it. Expectedly, our little girl evolved into an unfriendly, tactless, entitled brat who believed she could do no wrong.”

Dean shook his head from nostalgia, grinning. “I remember that girl. Not going to lie, Dan, she was cute underneath all that wild hair, but Christ, was she obnoxious.”

Dan grimaced and lowered his head, speaking his next words as if it were a secret. “I really think it was the Weasleys who helped smooth out those rougher edges. Hel and I were at a loss on how to reverse the damage. Being with them humbled her.”

“You have twin boys, I understand,” Claire said. “I’m sure you and your wife learned from your mistakes with Hermione and laid off a bit when it came to the spoiling.”

“We didn’t”

“Oh.” Claire appeared both sympathetic and amused.

“They’re good boys, though,” said Dan. “They’re inherently sweet. Something they came with, so teaching them empathy and compassion hasn’t been trouble. Hermione had those characteristics to a degree, but she showed them to animals rather than people. At least twice a year, from four to eleven, she’d bring home a stray cat or dog. Baby birds kicked from their nests. Bunnies minding their own business at the park. Never a human friend. And these animals weren’t fluffy, mewling kittens or whimpering pups. These were unvaccinated rejects of, not just the litter, but society. Hideous, feral creatures who had no love or gratitude for her. She’d be covered in scratches and bites, declaring her love for them and insisting she could tame them given the chance.”

“Did you ever let her keep any of them?”

Dan shook his head. “We allowed her a cat when she was thirteen, and he was an ugly, orange beast. He shed like no other and loathed everyone except her. Cat hair got everywhere, and his hind legs were bow-legged. No one had wanted him from the pet shop, and he’d had been there for years. Hermione was like that, though. She was that sort of girl who saw good in monsters and took them home. Thus…how she got here.”

Dean opened his mouth and then closed it. His perspective on Draco Malfoy courting Hermione Granger a decade ago held no value on what was happening now.

However, if Daniel Granger only knew the extent of it.

Daniel had been holed up in the Muggle world, unknowing the goings-on of his daughter. It’s not like she went to The Boyfriend Store, spotted Darth Vader in the bargain bin, discovered the misunderstood Anakin Skywalker underneath the black armor, and pitied him enough to invite him into her bed.

In reality, Malfoy wooed Hermione and wooed her hard. He chose her, not the other way around. After the war and the Death Eater Trials were over, Hermione wouldn’t have even spared the man a second glance if he hadn’t purposefully situated himself in her life. Biding his time. Waiting. Outwardly playing the pensive, guilt-ridden, designated DMLE brooder in his corner cubicle and the soft-spoken voice of reason as her engagement to Ronald Weasley fell apart.

The slithering, sly prat competed in the long game as a second-stringer, watching and waiting from the bench as Hermione’s mediocre dating life unfolded. For a time, Malfoy was happy to be there. The other team players were bumbling fools and provided comedic relief in his mundane life. It wasn’t until Viktor Krum purposely mounted his broom and reentered Hermione’s orbit when Malfoy genuinely began to feel threatened and was no longer content observing from the sidelines.

Claire placed her long, pale hand on Dan’s arm. “Oh, Fra—” She cleared her throat. “Dr. Granger, I’m sorry. Daughters are hard, aren’t they? I have no regrets in my Brianna, but there were times I wondered if she would’ve been easier to handle as a boy.” She then laughed, rolling her eyes. “But probably not, given who her father is.”

Dan smiled in good humor and then turned serious, scooting closer. “Dr. Fraser, how well do you know Mr. Grey?”

A blush bloomed on Claire’s cheeks, and her eyes fell to the side. “Not terribly well.”

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one,” said Dean, snickering.

“I only know him through my husband,” she defended nervously and clenched her cup of whiskey. “Why do you ask, Dr. Granger?”

“I think it’s obvious, Dr. Fraser,” said Dan, huffing, and scratched at his bearded growth. “My daughter thinks herself in love. Again. This Time-Turner may have her second-guessing on whether she should end things with Grey. It very well could allow him to be a more permanent part of her life. Is he someone you would want for you own daughter?”

A strangled, hysterical giggle erupted from Claire, and she tried to smother it by drinking from her cup. When that didn’t work, she covered her mouth with a cloth napkin.

“So he’s that much of a tosser,” Dean evenly stated. Interesting. As far as all 18^th century douchebags went, he thought John one of the less severe ones.

Claire shook her head no and lowered her napkin. Face flushed and pretty lips fumbling, she attempted to reiterate. “What can I say?” she shrugged. “I mean, he’s not the worst man out there, but…Hermione could do better.”

“Yes,” agreed Dan. “Of course, but do you think he loves her like she loves him?”

Claire’s blinked at the question. “I don’t think they love each other at all. I think they are both victims of loneliness and lust, but you and Mr. Thomas know her better while my husband knows John better. Who am I to say how they truly feel about one another?”

Dan shot an inquiring glance at Dean who nodded solemnly. “Loneliness and lust are definite factors on how it got started. She’s in deep now, though.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Dan bitterly agreed.

“If it’s any consolation, Daniel,” Dean said, leaning forward in his chair, “should this man have skeletons in his closet, then he’s hidden them from her quite well. You may’ve disagreed with Hermione marrying Draco. Hell, everyone did, but she didn’t go into it blind to misdeeds or sketchy past. He was her bully, an arsehole to everyone, and ultimately a convicted criminal. What convinced her of giving him her time and love was Draco showing her how good of a bloke he could be. Hermione’s loves a lost cause but does have her limits.” Dean hunched over the table even further, his gaze mischievous. “Now, Dr. Fraser, are you concerned because you genuinely believe there’s evilness lurking inside John or are you simply unsure because of something else?”

Claire winced at Dean who pointedly toyed with his wedding band and wiggled his brows twice unbeknownst to Dan.

“Something else,” she conceded. “I don’t think they’re a good match. Surface-wise, yes, he’s husband material. He’s handsome, smart, gentlemanly, and comes from old money and an old name. The reality of him, though, is bleak.”

“Meaning?” Dan pressed.

“From what I understand,” started Claire, “is that he spends very little time at home. He was married before and spent most of his time away from his wife and son. His work kept him abroad—keeps him abroad. Just recently, he returned from Boston. He’d been away from Hermione and his son for months. He left soon after their supposed nuptials.” She straightened her spine, her gaze severe. “What I’m suggesting is that his priorities are skewed.”

“Work,” Dan said, nodding. “Honestly, Hermione’s the same way.”

Claire shook her head. “Soldiering. Adventure. Freedom. Not like it matters, though.” She exhaled, half-smiling, and she shirked one shoulder. “When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Dan said.

“Speaking of leaving.” Dean stood. He’d delayed the inevitable. It was time to find Mr. Fraser.

“I don’t like it, Mr. Thomas.” Claire crossed her arms, frowning. “Going out by yourself the way things are here is too dangerous. You were lucky getting to Mount Josiah in once piece, and I don’t feel comfortable with you taking that chance again.”

“Agreed,” said Dan. “Claire will persuade Hermione to stay put—”

Dean snorted and shot a challenging grin at Claire. “If you can do that, Dr. Fraser, I’d gladly risk the noose and kiss you.”

“Oh, Mr. Thomas, don’t joke about such things.”

“It’ll be all right.” Dean removed a folded bit of parchment from inside his vest and handed it to her. “If anyone questions me, I’ll show them this.”

Claire unfolded the note and read the contents, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Dean, you can’t show anyone this!”

Untroubled, Dean patted his vest. “I think I gave you the wrong one. Which one is that? What does it say?”

“ ‘I delcareth that I can do whatevereth I want and go wherevereth I want, so kindly fucketh off, signed Me,’ ”  recited Claire.

“Nah, that’s not the right one,” said Dean, unperturbed, and extracted two other folded papers. “This one is. It says I’m a freeman going about my employer’s business. But I guess I could use the other which writes I’m not a freeman and am going about my owner’s business. My owner being Dr. Granger here.”

“You’ll not be using that one,” Dan said firmly. “I told you to not even bring it with you as did Seamus and Harry, and you said you wouldn’t.”

Claire flared her nostrils, contrition and disgust on her face. “I hate to say this, but you might want to use that one, Mr. Thomas. A black freeman in this place might as well have a target painted on his back.”

Much to Daniel’s dismay, Dean handed over the first two papers and kept the last, ignoring the queer, unpleasant feeling inside him as he left River Inn.

Using a bloodied kerchief belonging to Jamie, Dean performed a Tracking-Spell in place to guide him where to go.

It wasn’t the fake document that unsettled him. He’d had it on his person since before the journey through the stones. No, it was Mr. Fraser’s half-arsed note and the box left on the table. It was the Time-Turner, the gemstones, and a dodgy letter from Nott meant for Dan explaining how to override the safety lock on the device.

In the few minutes he had to himself when Claire and Dan were at the bar, Dean read and reread Nott’s words even though it hadn’t been for his eyes. The letter had been addressed to Daniel. Even now, as Dean made his way out of town and towards the outskirts, he contemplated the penmanship, ink-choice, and wordage Nott used.

“Tidy print, blue ink,” he said to himself, “and a Time-Turner.”

Dean had never seen a Time-Turner with his own eyes. From what he understood, there weren’t any left after what happened in the Department of Mysteries nearly fifteen years ago. There was speculation the DoM was working on reintroducing the technology, but he’d also heard they were conducting breeding experiments between trolls and half-giants. Hearsay. That’s all it was.

Still, that didn’t change the fact Dean saw and briefly poked the Time-Turner.

Although, the device may not even be real.

Nott wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of delivering a fake, however.

That is…if Nott was indeed the one who left the pouch because Dean had his respected reservations. That poor bloke was an intense bottle of introverted nerves. The man couldn’t manage a simple Floo call or order a sandwich and tea from the ministry cafe without a shot of whiskey, words of affirmation to the mirror, and a half-smoked cigarette.

“Tidy print, blue ink, and a Time-Turner,” repeated Dean, scratching his scruff as he detoured through a thicket of trees, his magic tugging him along on where to go. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he sensed he was being watched but paid the hidden onlooker no mind just yet. “Nott doesn’t print. He does cursive, and it sucks arse.”

The tug of magic led him towards a creek adjacent to the river. Near it, he saw a white, little creature, and his heart leapt into his throat.

“Cordelia!”

The feline didn’t even pause in her paw-licking or even bless him with a glance.

When Dean reached her, he knelt and ignored the plain fact he was allergic to cats as he scratched at her ears and checked her bougie crystal collar. He needed to touch her to assure himself she was really Cordelia and not a stray, common puss.

“Mreow!” she noised, wriggling in his grasp, and it was much like trying to manhandle a sentient sac of fluffy custard.

“We thought you were a gonner,” he said, itching starting to resonate in his palms and wrists.

Moments before he and Dan crossed over at Ocracoke, Cordelia darted out of Mrs. Granger’s arms and charged the tallest standing stone, disappearing in a rather anticlimactic fashion. There was no pop, no shimmering, no dissolving. Just one moment she was there and the next, not.

Her fur was damp in some places, Dean retracted his hand to see spots of tacky blood.

“Are you all right, love? Let me see.” He picked her up and turned Cordelia over, much to her utter dismay. He ignored her hissing and flailing, finding no wound, and he was only a little bit scratched for his curiosity. He kissed her crown between her twitching ears. "Good, love, that's good.”

Continuing to massage between her ears and under her chin, he held her close to his chest and looked around, catching sight of someone partially on the bank a good hundred feet north of him. Treading closer, Dean saw that it was a man. He laid face down and disheveled. His shirt was soaked and bloody, hands caked in sopped soil.

Dean crouched and set down Cordelia to check the man’s pulse. At his jugular, a faint throbbing was felt, so Dean gingerly turned him over and lifted his shirt to find a gash on his left oblique and a shallow one over his bony pectorals.

Misfired Sectusempra, observed Dean after a well-practiced twitch of his wand to reveal what had befell the young man. Not a stab wound. Poor sod must’ve passed out from shock or maybe a fall.

For a second, Dean thought the man to be Jamie Fraser but after Scourgifying his face, he concluded otherwise. There were distinct similarities such as the curly red hair and tall figure, but the man was not a man at all. The boy was no older than sixteen. He was lanky and lean. A few pimply spots even littered his chin and goose-egged forehead.

“You had a nasty tumble, didn’t you, lad?” muttered Dean.

Cordelia cast a haughty, baleful eye towards the boy before leaping onto his chest and curling herself into ball, arsehole facing the boy’s face.

“Well, shit, Theo,” said a voice from behind Dean. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

Dean whirled around, wand drawn. Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini emerged from the trees, poncily dressed as decorated Redcoats. Relief washed through him, and he almost lowered his wand but then noticed the differences from the Nott and Zabini standing before him and the pair he left behind in 2011.

They had graying tapers at their temples and crow’s feet at their eyes. Nott was less sinew and wire and actually had substance in him. He appeared to, at one point, have kicked his habits of Lucky Strikes, tankards of Nescafe, and embraced partaking of five-a-days, exercise, and sunlight.

He also wore a gold band on his left ring finger which, frankly, astounded Dean. Theo wasn’t exactly husband material, nor boyfriend material for that matter. Sure, he was somewhat alluring in that broody, poetry café sort-of way, but he had the charisma of a constipated loo attendant.

As for Blaise, the man had definitely seen better days. Still strikingly handsome, yes, but thin and withdraw. Stony and cold. The impish glittering in his eyes that once captivated people was gone. His wide, full lips usually graced in a smile or smirk, were downturned. He looked over his shoulder and frowned further.

“Where’d he go?”

“Hm?” said Nott, glaring at the same emptiness behind he and Blaise. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, he’s buggered off.”

“I didn’t even hear him wander,” said Zabini. Sighing in aggravation, he closed his eyes and smeared a hand down his face.

“What in the actual fuck,” uttered Dean, raising his wand even higher more out of concern than of blatant fear. “When the hell did you two come from, may I ask?”

Before the either Nott or Zabini could answer, gunshots echoed throughout the forest. Several moments later they were chased by a scream of agony coming from a girl.

“Finite incantatum!”

The vacant expression dissolved from Jamie’s face. Danielle had no time to appreciate how he was no longer firing his pistol at her general direction, for Pucey had just transfigured her whirling cloud of fallen tree branches into pulpy granules. They were meant to subdue him enough to stop his hexing and cursing. Instead, a tsunami of saw dust blew towards her at a terrifying speed, and she barely had enough time to throw up a Protego.

As far as spells went, it was by far the tamest he’d aimed since he attacked her and Jem along the bank of James River. They were both thrown from Chili Pepper, and the horse traitorously galloped off without a second glance. After a short duel that left Jem hurt and unconscious, and she struggling to shake off a weak, but no less impactful Stunner, Pucey had left for town. No sooner had she pushed through the jinx, he had returned with the letter meant to save her family.

And Jamie.

Who had been cursed by a poorly powered Imperious.

Had he not been, he would’ve only had to aim and pull the trigger of his pistol once. He had shot at her a total of five times and missed which further proved Pucey’s magic was feeble enough to fight off.

A subpar Sectusempra at Jem, a damp Imperious at Uncle Jamie, and wavering dark spells launched at her told Danny that Pucey was having difficulties casting magic.

Through her barrier, she saw Uncle Jamie fall to his knees. On all fours, he breathed raggedly and even fed the grass a bit of his ale-forward lunch.

“Shoot him,” she called out, her boots skidding as a fairly poisonous Bombarda thrust her backwards and sizzled off a few layers of her protective shield. At normal level of vigor, it would’ve blasted apart her own spellwork.

Pucey swayed on his feet which didn’t go unnoticed by her.

Snapping his head up to stare at her, a string of saliva hanging from his mouth, Jamie gawked incredulously at her.

“Please, Uncle Jamie!” she exclaimed, sweat tricking from her brow. “He’s going to kill me!”

Her words affected him like she hoped. Jamie hopped to his feet, pointing his gun. With a quick of flick her wrist, she disarmed him, the flintlock somersaulting towards her. At the same time, Pucey removed his wand from her direction and targeted Jamie, having expected a bullet barreling in his direction.

Another swish of her wand and a ball of light streaked over to Jamie, expanding into a cylindrical shield embedded with runes where he was promptly encapsulated and protected from the onslaught of Pucey’s magic.

Danny lunged to the side, grabbing the gun and aiming the muzzle at Pucey who’d barely caught onto her diversion. As he went to turn back to her, she squeezed the trigger the same moment he cast a hex in her direction. Her bullet hit—practice with Daddy and Uncle Jamie hadn’t failed her, but so did Pucey’s spell despite her trying to fling herself out of his range.

She fell to the ground screaming, the pistol tumbling way out of her reach. Unimaginable pain wracked down her left leg. Pressure bore down on her femur, patella, tibia, and ankle until each bone snapped like pieces of chalk. Her stomach revolted from the agony, and she vomited. Black clouds swirled her vision, and she struggled to remain conscious. Shock settled deeply into her system, and shivers coursed through her body.

As Adrian Pucey inched towards her, her eyes rolled to back of her head—and nearly stayed there—for she was exasperated. Merlin and Christ, she shot him. With a fucking bullet. Why was he still moving?

Focusing on staying conscious, she saw him inching towards her, blood gushing from beneath his shoulder.

Fuck, I missed his heart.

Several feet from her and Pucey was Jamie Fraser encapsulated in a shimmering, scarlet cover of glowing, protective runes. He angrily banged his fists against the barrier.

“Let me out, Danielle!” he roared.

With great difficulty she shook her head no. This was her fight and if she let Jamie out, Pucey wouldn’t faff about a moment longer. He’d either kill him or Oblivate the shit out of him without an ounce of grace or gentleness before circling back to her. And then to tidy up loose ends, he’d finish off Jemmy.

“You’ve made quite a mess of things, haven’t you, Danny,” Pucey lectured. “Messing with Time-Turners and dragging your boyfriend into the mix. Everything that has happened. You shouldn’t have brought him here. He had no business being here and coming in so close of contact with his grandfather. Everything that will happen is your fault entirely. The problems it will cause, I can only imagine.”

“You’re lecturing me on the d-delicate n-nature of time,” Danielle spat, clenching her wand. “You f-fucking maniac. All th-this start-ted because of you luring my stepfather into m-messing with it. M-Making him believe he could ch-change hist-tory. Tr-Tricking him int-to trying to k-kill my mum. Confri—”

“Expelliarmus!”

Her wand soared into Pucey’s awaiting hand, and Danny could do nothing but release a broken cry. “No!”

“Is this…this is Draco’s wand?” Pucey asked, baffled. “Was this all supposed to be symbolic? Trying to kill me with my ex-lover’s wand? Where’s yours?”

“He left it to me.”

The wand in question acted as her spare. Her primary one was at Hogwarts back in 2028, being used by Rosie.

“Draco Malfoy bequeathed his wand to his filthy ex-wife’s bastard?”

Wasting what may be her final few breaths justifying her stepfather’s reasoning would be pointless, but she couldn’t resist a sentence or two. She may be experiencing her last few minutes of life, but in no way was she going to shut up. She was her mother’s daughter, after all.

“How does it feel to know you never knew him at all?” She chuckled to cover the trembling of her chin. “I bet it feels just as good as it did when he tried to kill you after what you did to my family.”

She saw that her comment struck him deeply and had she had the strength, she would’ve cackled. Even going so far as to bring up both of their horrible memories to just drag Pucey through them with her. Remind him how terribly it must’ve hurt killing the man he supposedly loved.

Expectedly, Pucey pointed the hawthorn and unicorn hair down at her face. She could see him mouth Avada with no real zest or intention. The ultimate Unforgiveable would cost him dearly. The Killing Curse would tax his already fragile health. There was a reason she was able to shake his Stunner and Jamie was able to fight Pucey's orders enough to not kill her. His magical core was fading and by the looks of his pallor and yellow eyes, his health was compromised.

Casting the curse on her may very well be the last spell he ever uttered.

“Refractory period?” she snorted, forcing herself to sit back up. “Happens to the best of us, I suppose.”

Rage clouded his features, and he snarled at her, throwing the wand well out of either of their reach. Using his own, he summoned her beaded bag and from inside, a healing potion. Laughing at his luck, he uncapped vial and knocked back the contents.

The potion wouldn't completely heal him. The bullet still resided in his shoulder, but it would stimulate new cell growth around it and stem the flow of blood.

“I don’t need a wand to kill you,” he finally said anxiously, grinning as he headed towards Jamie. Her uncle’s dirk lay discarded not far from him and Pucey picked it up. He gripped the handle and unsheathed the blade, tossing a leer at the owner who was all but throwing his entire body weight against his shield.

“I’m going to cut out your goddaughter’s tongue, James Fraser. Care to watch?” Pucey charged towards Danielle, grabbing her chin and digging his filthy, bloodied fingers into her cheeks. His eyes sliced into her own, and a sickening smile splitting his face. His lips were dry and cracked. “You know I considered sparing your baby sister. Unlike the others in the vehicle, she didn’t die right away. Her car seat absorbed most of the impact—”

“No!”

“She was bruised a bit. A cut here. A cut there. Squawking like a bludgeoned banshee when I came upon her all tangled and trapped in that belted contraption. Nowhere to go. Unable to runaway to safety.”

Fury on a level Danielle had never felt before flared up inside her, knocking aside any shock or fatigue. “Fucking stop, you bastard!”

He backhanded her with the handle of the blade, but didn’t allow her to fall sideways. He took ahold of her face again and dragged the tip of the dirk along her cheek, slicing the skin open. The open wounds stung as her furious tears fell passed it.

“You ought to thank me, Danielle,” purred Pucey, his left hand coming to grip her throat. “Because I considered another avenue of torturing your mother. Little Helena Grey was the spitting image of her mother, and Hermione Granger had…has more enemies than just me. Enemies possessing tastes well below my own depravities. Such as liking for toddlers.”

Pucey lowered his mouth to her ear. “The amount of money I could’ve sold her for—”

His own agonizing scream ceased his wretched rambling, and he released her. He jolted backwards instinctively, attempting to put more distance between them as to abate the pain, but her grip around his heart held him at bay.

Squeezing.

He yelled, the sound otherworldly and jagged, and the dagger fell to the ground. He collapsed to his knees, his focus coming to her hand imbedded wrist-deep in his chest. At the sight, another piercing cry erupted from his throat.

He attempted to grab her arm, realizing it was the source of his pain. She simply rotated her forearm, and he choked on his own bile. “Fuuuuck!”

The rhythm of his heart accelerated in her hand, and she could hear the frantic beating. Her fingers pressed around the epicardium, and he raised up his arms in a surrendering pose.

“I’m going to kill you, Adrian Pucey.”

“Stop! Just think for a second.” He gasped, his shoulders slumping in relief when she relaxed her hold. “You prevent me killing your family members may change your entire life—”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

“—but not for the better,” he continued, desperate. “Your parents were separated then. Your father came back here, didn’t he? Your mother stayed in her time. Trying to get pregnant with another man’s child. You and your sister bouncing back and forth from here to there. After the deaths were when your parents worked out their problems. It was because of what I did, they came together and worked out their problems. It made them stronger—”

“Oh, fuck you!” Danny clenched her hand in warning. A monster like him couldn’t even begin to imagine what made a relationship strong.

“It’s true! You know it! Your parents won’t get back together! Your father will return here to stay. Your mother…she’ll stop pursuing the divorce. She’ll get back together with Draco, and there will be no immediate reason for Scorpius to be born.”

Danny glared, weighing his words and finding them as menacingly heavy as a bag of fake feathers.

“Even if what you’re saying happens, there are worse things.” One of them being the loss of her grandpa, uncles, and baby sister.

Besides, her mother was already pregnant with Scorpius when Pucey hurt her family.

“I know about Benny and Junior,” he grappled. “They’ll never be born, but perhaps we can come to an agreement where we both can get the future we want. You’ll need my help—”

“I need nothing from you,” she seethed, squeezing

A soundless scream rushed out of his mouth, and his head slumped forward. She felt his esophagus spasming. Before the pink-stained sick could hit her limb, she muttered the spell Blaise taught her. Magic, so tangy and lustrous and dark pooled underneath her ribs, and she retracted her arm.

Much to her dismay, the heart didn’t follow.

The spell hadn’t worked.

“Shit!” she swore, darting to go back into Pucey’s chest cavity. Naturally, he scrambled backwards on his hands and heels like she was the more dangerous one.

“What the fuck did you do?” he spat once he’d put a several feet of distance between them. He clawed at the buttons on his dingy white blouse, tearing it open. He patted his uninjured yellowing skin beneath in search of the gaping wound she must’ve put in his thorax.

Thwift!

Danny startled when an arrow came from the north and embedded itself in Pucey’s left knee. The man unleashed a howling scream as he fell onto his side and curled his unhurt leg towards his torso. The wild, vibrant, proud rooster feathers on the shaft had her stomach lurching.

“Ian,” she gasped at the tall man walking towards her from the copse. “Ian, what are you doing here? You can’t be here. Uncle Jamie…”

She gestured wildly at the man who gaped at his nephew from behind his barrier. The Ian Murray in front of her was practically unrecognizable to the Ian Murray Jamie left at the Ridge, but there was no mistaking the deep brown eyes and long face.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said grimly, crouching down beside her, his expression one of paternal dismay.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” she said, lifting her chin and folding her arms, eyes narrowed. “Who was it that brought you here? It couldn’t have been my mum.”

“We did,” announced Blaise Zabini, marching into the clearing alongside Theo Nott. “We wanted to check in on Jeremiah to make sure you didn’t bring him with you. Your boyfriend wasn’t there, but Ian was to fetch him and return him to North Carolina. Apparently, he’s been kicked out of school for being a menace. He left a note saying he was going to run off to the future with you.”

Danny rolled her eyes like any self-respecting sixteen-year-old to cover her anxiety from The Adults finding out about her and Jem’s plan once the letters had been delivered.

“What were you going to do? Pass him off as a Weasley. Or better yet, hide him in your school trunk until you both come of age?” he sniggered.

“McGonagall would love that,” Theo added. “Can you imagine the headlines? Minister’s daughter gets expelled for hoarding a time-travelling fuckboi Squib in her dormitory.”

Blaise and Theo were dressed in obnoxiously perfect colonial army uniforms, and the former’s gaze settled coldly on Pucey’s writhing form. Strolling behind them at a careful pace was a young Dean Thomas holding a Stunned Cordelia, and floating beside him at shoulder level was an unconscious Jem.

Her breath hitched. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” said Theo. “A little cut up and bruised. I cast a Stasis Charm on him to keep him from waking before we can give him the proper care, but he’ll be just fine.”

Tears once again slid down her face, and she winced again because of the cut on her face. “Will he… will he scar?”

“Yes,” said Dean, gawping at her as if she were a fascinating piece of hipster art that could at any moment self-combust. “Sorry. Nott said, but it’s like…bloody hell. You’re…you’re the one your mum’s pregnant with.” A soft smile split his face, his dark eyes becoming melted pools of the darkest chocolate. “This. Is. Amazing! You look so like your mum but blonde! Well...blonde-ish!”

She would’ve blushed if not all her blood was rushing towards her injured leg.

“I doubt these wankers here are going to let me remember any of this,” Dean continued, slowly approaching her. “But are you a Gryffindor like me and your mum? I’m dying to know.”

Blaise barked out a self-satisfactory chuckle. “Oh, Thomas, you’re precious.”

“She’s was sorted Slytherin. The Hat barely touched her when announcing it,” added Nott, proudly chuffed. His smirk turned rueful, however. “But she has her reckless moments, no doubt. Take this trip for example.”

“I planned this out perfectly,” she said hotly, slamming her fists down. The Adults shot her dubious looks. “I did! I had no idea this,” she waved her arm at Pucey who had succumbed to unconsciousness, “this arsehole was going be here!”

“Not to mention that Rosie Jean’s cover has been blown. Your mother is beside herself with worry. Who is to say how your father’s taking it?” said Theo, kneeling beside her, opposite of Ian.

He frowned at her leg and removed his tricorn hat in a very gentlemanly way. She slumped against his shoulder, searching for comfort. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel young and vulnerable, inhaling his familiar scent of pine aftershave and cherry blossom from Gabrielle’s perfume.

Mum once said a potently odorous cloud of cigarettes and terrible coffee used to waft off him once upon a time.

“I’m going to knock you out, sweetheart. You won’t want to be awake when Blaise sets that,” he said.

“No!” She grabbed ahold of his coat pleadingly. “Just kill him, grab the letter meant for my grandfather, and make sure he gets it. If you do it now, healing me won’t matter. I’ll disappear.”

“That’s,” Theo hung his head and then shook it, exasperated. “That’s not how time works—”

“That’s exactly how it works. I’ll be back where I’m supposed to be. At school.” Danny swallowed, another wave of emotion hitting her, realizing Jem would likely return to 1786 in a blink. Well…perhaps she hadn’t planned it all out perfectly. “With Helena. With my sister. She’ll be a bothersome little snitch and probably a Gryffindor just like Mum was in school, and it will be like it was supposed to be all along.”

“Let’s not faff about then,” Blaise said. He hunched down and rooted through the man’s pockets, soon finding a bloodied and wadded piece of parchment. He stuffed it into his own pocket and then without further preamble, dove his fist into Pucey’s chest, arousing him with an unearthly shriek that rose the hairs on Danny’s arms.

Ian crossed himself as did Jamie. “Christ,” the former muttered.

“Fucking hell!” hissed Dean.

When Blaise retracted his hand, the magical embodiment of Pucey’s heart rounded his palm.

The peri, myo, and endocardium were thin as butterfly wings and translucent like luminescent cellophane. With perfect clarity, she could see every intricate detail of the heart’s inner workings. The veins and arteries loopy and soft like al dente noodles. In contrast, the septum and the aortic valves and atria were thick like porcelain.

Blaise once told her the heart’s Essence wouldn’t be a glowing mound of scarlet like that one telly series showed. Hearts, he had found, were both delicate in some places and sturdy in others.

“Hey there, mate,” cooed Blaise to Pucey. “Looks like you fell asleep on us.”

“Please,” Pucey begged, the word hardly audible. “Let me come home. I’ll go to prison. I’ll do what you want. Just don’t kill me.”

Blaise stared down at him, unmoved.

“I know things.” Pucey tried to sit up, his heart beating frantically in Blaise’s hand. “I can be an informant for you. There are still Death Eaters in Britain and Ireland. Pureblood supremacy movements are starting back up everywhere. I know the people selling Mudblood children into the dark shadows of their governments who are experimenting on them—”

Theo leapt to his feet, brandishing his wand and pointing it at Pucey. “Legilimens.”

“Now we’ll know those people, too,” Blaise said to the man jerking at his feet. He then regarded Theo pleasantly. “Take him for everything he’s got. And just before you leave him brain dead, get out. I’ll do the rest.”

“Let me kill him! I want to do it! It should be me!” shouted Danny. “He attacked my family.”

“Absolutely not!” Ian sputtered.

Blaise gifted her a considering stare, and for moment, she thought he wouldn’t concede.

“All right,” he said, starting towards her.

“I don’t like this,” Ian said, shaking his head. “Your mother wouldn’t want this, Danielle.”

“I know,” she said softly, accepting the Essence from Blaise with both hands, the queer object beating warmly in her palms. The exterior felt as fragile as a hollowed ostrich egg. “But I think if she were here, she’d do it. She’d do it for Granny. She’d do it for Dad. She’d do it for herself. Since she’s not, I’ve got to.”

Sucking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and crushed the heart like it was sculpted from paper-thin peanut brittle. She did not see Pucey’s body jerk violently, but she did hear his gargling whimpers before the forest air became silent and eerily still.

Danny peeled one eye open to peek at the gray, lifeless shards in her hands and then at the dead body they belonged to. Blaise removed his wand from within his red coat and Vanished the Essence remnants before cancelling Jamie’s protective capsule. Before her godfather could even say a word, Blaise flicked his wrist, and Jamie sunk down into the grass, snoring loudly.

“Careful wi’ him,” growled Ian.

“Should we let things unfold naturally,” Blaise started, ignoring Ian, “what you’ve done here, Danny, will become a cycle. You will return here again and again with Jeremiah. Pucey will throw a wrench in your plans. Theo and I will come after you. It must end before it begins.”

Stooping down, Blaise showed her her letter he took off from Pucey. It was bloodied and wrinkled but salvageable. Sliding a dainty pair of golden glasses out of his inner coat, he perched them low on the bridge of his nose as he read. Every so often, he’d throw her a squinty-eyed look over the rims of his specs.

“Well,” he cleared his throat and plucked off his specs, “I’ll give it an Acceptable and not a point more, Miss Grey. It is a good start in the right direction as far as forgery goes. You’ve captured Theo’s voice nicely, but you forget how we’re old men. We write in cursive, and he has atrocious penmanship all around.”

Danny sighed, allowing herself to lay down and feel sleepy. “I did my best, Professor.”

“A letter from the real Theodore Remington Nott the Third should suffice, hm?” offered Theo.

She nodded, almost cracking a smile. The danger was over. She was safe, and her body was telling her to shut down for a reboot. “I’m so tired,” she said, her voice cracking and her teeth chattered. Her lashes fluttered shut. “But at least my leg doesn’t hurt so badly anymore.”

“You’re probably freezing from shock. I’ve got just the thing.” Blaise crouched down, fishing out his flask. “Come on. Sit up. I don’t want you choking.”

Nott pulled her into a sitting position.  “Daddy says I can only have alcohol on holidays, and only if it’s watered wine or champagne. Mum says I’m not allowed to drink at all until I’m eighteen.”

Dark brows arched, Blaise smirked. “You’re going to obey your parents’ wishes now, Danielle Grey. Oh, you do surprise me sometimes.”

Taking the flask, she managed a small laugh at reading the inscription.

I stopped drinking for Good. Now I only drink for Evil.

“Nice,” she commented, unscrewing the cap and knocking back a swallow of what she thought would be whiskey. Suppressing a belch and swaying, she tossed Blaise a gimlet glare. “That’s not Ogden’s, damn y—”

Danny’s body went slack, and Theo caught her whilst Blaise realigned her leg with careful wand swishes.

“Ye’ll be able tae heal her quick?” inquired Ian, squinting in suspicion. “Wi’ yer…witchy ways and such?”

“Her leg will swell, but we can take care of the rest at home,” Blaise said, opening his arms to receive her. “You’ve got a letter to write, don’t you?”

Theo moved her over to him and stood as did Blaise who held Danny in his arms, her head slumped against his shoulder. He kissed her forehead and pressed his cheek against it.

“I haven’t got to hold her like this in ages,” he said quietly. “He was so close to killing her, Theo.”

“She’ll held her own for a good long time, though. Only a sprog of Granger could’ve managed such a feat.”

Blaise shook his head. “Her broken femur bone nicked the artery. She was bleeding internally. Had we not come—”

“We did.” Theo nodded. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. “We made it, Blaise, and we can fix this once and for all. No holding back. No more playing it safe and messing with what should be and shouldn’t. You got a quill? I have a letter to write.”

Chapter Text

Loitering outside Mr. Granger’s room, John Grey slowed his pacing. He had taken the five minutes needed to gather his thoughts and come to terms with Hermione’s tale of attempted murder, time travel, and what their future may hold.

Thus, why he needed to excuse himself. He had to decide his next move which was to reenter the room and…fight like bleeding hell for her if he must.

The odds of her staying were not in his favor, with her father downstairs at the ready to catapult her home to her mother and brothers.

He had attempted to persuade her to stay, but even in hindsight, it was “half-arsed” as Hermione would’ve called it. Furthermore, his duel for her now would be even more substantial, more significant given his knowledge now of her truth.

And though he was ever presently vexed with her and would be for some time, he could forgive her. Much to Hal’s displeasure, John had outgrown grudge-holding whilst recovering from his duel with Twelvetrees. People were a sum of their memories, upbringing, and choices. The reason they spoke lies or hid precious facts were just as complicated as his own tongue’s falsehoods.

He himself dabbled in all sorts of secrets and blatant untruths, many to cover his own sodomized arse. In another life, Hermione could’ve been the one pacing the halls of an inn while he himself fretted.

Just then an oily man of apparent ill-repute came waddling down the hallway, his beady, bloodshot eyes sizing up John. Of average height and of barrel-build, the shabby sod grinned nastily at him. Odors of various alcoholic beverages, urine, and perhaps fecal matter wafted from his person. Thick lines of dirt clogged his fingernails. His clothes were tattered, soiled, and altogether unkempt. John, an understanding man, would’ve felt the need to give him a coin or two out of pity. Unfortunately, the stranger had clearly approached him, not for money, but because he was guarding another sort of treasure.

Must there be men like this everywhere in every inn?

“Oi, I ‘ear tha’ pre’y wetch tho’ Lynches and the uppers blab ‘bout is een thar. I’ve co’ in’o a sma’ forchen jus’ recen’ly. I’ll cu’ ye een on i’ if you le’ lil’ ol me ha’ a keek.”

John’s spine straightened, and he unsheathed his sword and pressed the blade to the man’s chin. His salacious gaze turned faltered.

“I suggest you crawl back into whatever odious den you sprang from and stay there. If I should ever see you again, I shall slit your throat, and take a piss on your bleeding, godless corpse.”

With that said, he nicked the man at his jawline and watched dispassionately as the man sprinted back downstairs.

“Christ, Hermione,” he murmured, sheathing his blade. “What would’ve become of you had you not come into my care?”

John pondered the daughter Hermione seemed convinced she’d bear, and he felt queasy and disquieted. Would he be able to always be right outside her threshold when the evils of the world came slinking to her door? He thought of Dr. Granger and the scars marring his daughter’s body and the husband who forced her here. The man hadn’t been able to protect her.

Aside from sporting superb chocolate confections, was the future really so grand? Was it really that much better for women?

Perhaps, like today, it all depended on the kinds of women. Women born into privilege certainly had a better go of it than, for instance, a girl sired by the man John just encountered. His own niece had never known hunger or poverty or violence. Aside from being terrorized by her elder brothers, Dottie had never known true fear and likely never would, God willing.

And despite not attending university in the future, Minnie will assure her youngest continues to receive education in mathematics, history, and the sciences.

John wanted his daughter to have a life like Dottie’s. He did not want her to be a victim of repeated assault like her own mother had suffered, and Hermione got her scars in her own time. She hadn’t been safe, and John could only surmise their child wouldn’t be either.

John shook his head, muttering a curse, for clearly it was a settled matter. His wife and child would stay here, and he’d fight hell for leather to keep them.

Steeling himself, John faced the door, chin dipping, and charged into the room. “Hermione, I cannot in good faith…”

The rest of the sentence died on his tongue. His heart shot up into his throat at the sight of Hermione hunched over the table, hands braced on the surface. Her features were scrunched in agonizing pain. Raising a shaking arm, her “wand” in hand, she conjured a glowing, wispy shape that looked oddly like a bouncing otter.

“Oh, Christ!” he swore, hand on his thumping heart.

“Please come, Dean,” Hermione croaked. “I’m not well.”

The apparition scattered, eager and quick—as if to do her bidding— through the wall of the room, and John yelped at its departure.

Hermione doubled over, her wand dropping to the floor with a forlorn spark. Her expression was pinched, her cheeks flushed in an ailing way.

She swayed.

“My dear,” he said, his tone hollow. “What—”

Her lips squeezed together, and she shook her head. He came to her side, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“I think you ought to lay down. Something clearly is ailing you.”

“My head,” she whimpered. “God, it’s splitting—.” The rest of her words fell short as she swayed on her feet and dropped to her hands and knees. “I’m going to be sick.”

John scrambled mindlessly for some sort of nearby vessel to capture his wife’s and managed to grab Dr. Granger’s clean chamber pot just in time.

He rubbed Hermione’s back as she heaved. If he were a less worldly and tainted man, he’d join her in heaving. Alas, the sour stench of her regurgitated breakfast and tea bothered him not. Battlefronts had bathed him in much worse.

When her body could no longer give up anything more, she slumped against him, tears and sweat running down her flushed face. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath.

“Hermione, talk to me.” He began grappling with her fichu and the hooks of her bodice. Heat radiated off her and once the garments were off, slickness covered her clavicles, and her chemise clung damply to her breasts.

“I’m going to get Claire and your father.”

Her lashes fluttered shut, heal lolling. “I need to lay down.”

He aided her to her father’s bed and almost stripped her of her petticoats but ultimately decided that could wait.

“I’ll fetch Thomas. Claire. Your father.” For Christ’s sake, a fucking Orthodox priest if he had to.

Underneath the black gum tree, Jeremiah Mackenzie slumped at the trunk pressing a clean rag to the oozing wound underneath his sark. At a squinting distance, he could make out Cousin Ian. The man swung his battle axe to cleanly lop off the scalp of Pucey’s head before kicking his dead body into a deep hole magically dug by Nott.

Jem’s head throbbed from his fall off the horse, while Danielle’s unconscious form lay on the cushy cot Nott conjured for her. The thong that kept her hair tied had gotten lost somewhere causing her wavy, honeyed hair to fan around her slumbering features. Her parted lips were dark pink and chapped. Thick brown lashes tickled her high cheekbones, and those proud brows she inherited from her mother were furrowed, even in sleep.

Snuggled atop her chest was a glowering Cordelia standing guard, younger than he remembered yet forever brimming with unadulterated loathing towards all living creatures save a select few.

Her slanted eyes were reproachfully trained on Zabini.

Jem fancied the idea of crawling over to Danielle and bestowing a chaste peck on her lips but thought better of it. She wouldn’t like that if she found out and in the long run, neither would he. He wanted her awake and aware when they shared their first kiss.

If they ever managed to share a first kiss.

Damn. Was he even going to be her first kiss?

For the life of him, he didn’t know. Jem figured there were others in her time who flounced after her, enthralled by her prettiness and clever wit, but she never talked about them.

Despite having had nearly two weeks alone with her, he really messed up those first few moments when she retrieved him from university. Since then, she’d been closed off about her dealings at school and the friends she had there.

Forgive him, those braces for her teeth startled him. She hadn’t been burdened with those brackets when he saw her last, and they were nothing short of disquieting.

Frankly, he preferred her teeth from before. Those two front teeth—a touch on the longer side but not exceedingly off-putting—were adorable. In fact, she earned the nickname Bunny from her father around six years old.

One time Jem called her that, trying to be both flirtatious and teasing, and she bristled. Her cheeks pinkened in embarrassment, and she snootily told him only her dad was allowed to call her that.

In Jem’s peripheral, he saw Blaise throw him a gimlet side-eye. Watching intently. Waiting. Wishing for him to step a toe out of line.

Jem had never officially met Blaise Zabini. He, as well Mrs. Helena Granger had come to 1784 for the Christmas gathering at the Ridge by Hermione’s request but the man had mostly kept to himself. Only conversing with Granny and Mrs. Granger, the former being drawn to his aura of crippling ennui.

“Is there a drop fer me in there, de ye suppose?” he asked the man called Dean Thomas who pulled out a flask from his vest.

The man almost seemed to consider the request, head tilted. “How old are you?”

Jem sighed, resting the back of his head on bark. Pulling Grandpa Frank’s 1960’s pocket-watch from the recess in his vest, he frowned at the spindles of time.

“You best reset his memory, Mr. Zabini. He needs to return to River Inn, post haste.”

The man’s brows rose bemusedly. “Is that so?”

Dragging his gaze to Zabini, Jem dipped his chin. “Mrs. Granger-Grey…Hermione. She’ll need him. Remember what’s going to happen.”

And because the universe was a mad, queer place, a galloping, ghostly apparition in the shape of some sort of rodent came shooting towards Dean, stopping a mere foot away from his concerned face. Hermione’s voice, pained and panicked, bloomed from it.

“Please come, Dean. I’m not well.”

Zabini spared himself momentarily confusion before snapping his attention to a skittish Thomas and then hurling a knowing eye to Nott who was still gingerly waving his wand around Grandda’s head. “Hurry that up, mate. There’s not much time. I’ll take care of Thomas.”

“Fraser’s fair at Occlumency for a Muggle,” Nott said, irritation edging his words. He lowered his wand, rolling his shoulders as if relieving an ache and tilting his neck to release a pop. “Even unconscious he’s not keen in letting me in and what I do see…Oh, fucking hell!”

Theo leapt backwards several steps, hands on his chest. He gifted scandalized and pitying regard to Zabini. “I halfway wonder if I’d be doing him a favor by removing more than just the last couple of hours if you know what I mean.”

“No, so don’t even start on elaborating,” replied Zabini.

Dean held up his hands, a wand in one of them, and retreated further from Zabini’s bubble. “Mate, I won’t say a word. I swear it. I’ll take an Oath, a Vow. Whatever. You do this, and it’ll only delay me helping Hermione.”

Jem maneuvered against the tree trunk and stuck his leg out, tripping the man. Thomas swore colorfully, collapsing backwards, and Zabini leapt over him, his wand aimed at the prone man’s face. He held it for some time, his clenched jaw twitching.

“You treacherous little bugger,” Thomas seethed, glaring grumpily at Jem. “I saved your pubescent and pimply ginger arse, and tripping me is the thanks I get.”

Jem sulked at his words, probing his cheeks and rubbing his chin. His mum said his spots weren’t that bad.

“Come on, mate,” huffed Thomas at Zabini.

Just then, Cordelia hopped off Danielle and scampered to Thomas’ lap, hissing at Zabini.

“Hey there, girl,” Thomas cooed, scratching Cordelia behind her left ear. The fat white cat purred, though her peering about was unnervingly cold and calculated. “You’ve probably got up to all kinds of mischief since you got here. You’re missing your mum, aren’t you?”

Shockingly, Zabini lowered his arm a fraction. “You risked a lot coming here, Thomas. Why? You and Hermione aren’t close.”

Sitting up, Thomas snorted, his tone wry. “She’s a mate. Do you think it’s only a Slytherin quality to take care of their own?”

Zabini glowered at him, distrustful.

“Look, if it hadn’t been for her…” Thomas sighed, scratching his beard. “I’d be dead. My mum and stepdad. My sisters. Seamus. Harry couldn’t have done it all on his own. I’m closer to him, yeah, but he is who is because of Hermione. He defeated Voldemort because of her. I and every Half-blood and Muggle-born who survived the war are alive and safe thanks to her. She fought and nearly died a few times for me, and everyone like me. Coming to this utter shithole of year to help her get home was a no brainer. And getting to know her family these last several months have been a remarkable experience.”

“Moving speech.” Nott stepped away from Jamie. “But this all a very delicate matter, Thomas—”

“We could use him,” Zabini interjected.

“You could use me,” agreed Thomas, nodding eagerly.

“No,” said Nott.

“Do we really want this to ultimately fall on Daniel’s shoulders, Theo? I know why Danielle wanted him to be the one to prevent it all from happening. It’d be less messy Timewise. But it’d be cruel for him to carry that weight by himself.”

“And having Dean Thomas do it wouldn’t be?” Nott countered. “You’d be asking too much of him.”

Dean lifted his chin. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is.”

“No, you won’t.” Nott shook his head.

“We need a Secret Keeper,” Blaise said.

“I can be that.”

“And a promise.”

“To do what?”

Removing a folded piece of parchment from his vest, Zabini handed it to Thomas. Jem strained his neck to get a glimpse at what was written on it.

Hotel Zur Weinsteige Zauberei

Thomas dutifully read and slipped it into his pocket. “What’s there?”

“On October 31st of 2011, Adrian Pucey will check in under the alias of Otto Conrad—”

“You want me to kill him?” Fleeting panic, nausea, and then apprehensive resoluteness settled on Thomas’ face.

Zabini arched a brow. “Have you ever killed someone?”

“I’m an Auror,” Dean replied slowly, condescension dripping on each word.

“Under Potter’s regime,” added Nott.

“I’ve not cast the Killing Curse if that’s what you mean?” The tone Thomas adopted was calm and unashamed. “But I’ve been known to cast a deadly jinx or hex every now and then to ensure a criminal doesn’t have the opportunity to cast a fatal spell on me or my team.”

“You’re creative.” Zabini grinned a bit sadistically. “I like that, but no, I don’t want you to kill Pucey in 2011.”

“You don’t?” asked Thomas

“You don’t?” Nott sputtered, folding his arms and cautiously observing Zabini like he was utterly insane.

“What say you, Thomas?” Zabini offered the man his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Thomas scrutinized the offered hand and the man it was attached to before taking it. Zabini helped him to his feet, and they shook like gentlemen.

“What do you need me to do?”

A few days ago, John had climbed out of the carriage in front of Mount Josiah. The moment his boot touched the earth, he noticed the welcoming party gathered around the driveway, amongst them his son…and his glowing, seemingly healthy bride.

Willie had grown three inches since November; the top of his neatly queued russet head now reached Hermione’s ear. Certainly, they’d be the same height by Christmas.

Throwing away all gentlemanly decorum, his son screeched, “Papa!” and bolted over to him, nearly knocking him over upon embrace.

Hermione slowly followed suit but at a slower saunter, her brown eyes wide and glassy from unshed tears. Her grip was upon her straw bonnet to keep the wind from whisking it away from her tightly bound curls. The muted turquoise frock adorning her body brought out the freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. And the way her free arm cradled the fabrics of her skirt gave away her delicate condition.

John’s breath had caught in his throat.

Winter had been unseasonably cruel. Only three letters had reached him in Boston, two of them from England and one from Mount Josiah, the latter being a wrinkled-up saga where all but the first page were ink-smeared atrocities. The other nine pages were illegible.

From the candlelight of his Boston flat, he could make out the words of a seasonal sickness that had swept over Lynchburg—an awful ague brought to the town by a student from the northern colonies. Hermione had tended to the ailing all over the property and even ventured into town, freely peddling her services to all which included slaves, Jews, Catholics and the crippled.

People started gossiping about her, naturally, and her rather ruthless approach to physical cleanliness and dental hygiene. A few circles, many bearing the last name of Lynch, began to call her a witch.

According to Hal, once the sickness had done its worse in Lynchburg and retreated from the area, Hermione herself took ill.

All passages in the letter were illegible after that.

Scribbling down a response in March—so near to departure—was out of the question. Alas, for a month John held onto his vivid memories of Hermione’s stubbornness to yield. He couldn’t dream of any common illness felling her. No, she’d negotiate. Allow the sickness to momentarily debilitate her, but it could not have her.

“She can’t die,” John proclaimed to Dr. Granger and Claire who were fussing over Hermione.

His wife peeled her eyes open to half-slits at his words and then slowly rested them on Claire and then her father. They lingered on him, irritated. She looked like she was about to say something truly horrific to him, but then a winces and whimpers overcame once more.

For the next several minutes, she drifted in and out of consciousness as Claire fussed over her and Dr. Granger rifled through items on the other bed.

Claire swallowed once her superficial assessment came to an end, and John watched her throat bob. Her long, pale fingers rested against Hermione’s fevered forehead. Her body appeared too heavy for her spirit, limbs sinking listlessly into the mattress. “I think I know what’s wrong. Come helping with her skirts.”

“Yes?” John gravitated to his wife’s bedside. His shaking fingers unlaced her stays while Claire started stripping her of the skirt and petticoats.

“I’ll need to check all her body.” Claire slid the unctuous materials down Hermione’s legs, revealing her sweat-soaked chemise. Underneath were her cream-colored stockings cinched at her mid-thigh with tantalizing pink frills and ribbons. Claire tugged down one and John did the other.

John frowned at his wife’s uncovered ankles and feet. He touched her right one, swollen and puffy. “They were not like this this morning.”

“The blood pressure cuff,” said Dr Granger, coming up behind Claire with a peculiar contraption in one hand, his brown eyes settling at his daughter’s uncovered lower limbs. With his free hand, he cupped his daughter’s calve, his tan freckled fingers contrasting with her pale skin.

“You’re usually not so fair, Button,” he stated hoarsely to himself. His thumb massaged a circle below Hermione’s blemished knee. “Where did these bruises come from? Climbing trees or falling off her bicycle?”

Dr Granger chuckled somberly as if he’d spoken some private joke known only to him and his daughter as Claire gently prodded one of Hermione’s marred kneecaps. Brushing her long fingers towards her inner thigh, she murmured, “A bit red up here.”

Knowing exactly what caused those bruises and redness—and from Claire’s knowing face, she did as well, John found a particular interesting corner to guiltily inspect.

It would only be a matter time before the woman saw the other bruises; the oval-shaped ones on her hips and bottom where he gripped her that first day he returned home. It’d been an indecent hour of one in the afternoon whence they held their reunion. He’d been at Mount Josiah for all of fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes, and he was already inside his wife’s tight quim. On her forearms and widely positioned knees, he steered their frantic reunion by roughly palming her bum, gripping her hips, her waist. Swollen, tender breasts. Wherever he could reach.

John evacuated from the memory and redirected the conversation by hesitantly asking, “I say, what is a…bi-cy-cle, Dr. Granger?”

“It’s a wonder she kept to shaving her legs”. Claire arched a brow in discernment at Hermione’s smooth tibia. “And they are quite strong. She’s not been an idle lady of the house.”

“She walks the estate daily and participates in pi-la-tes and yo-ga and…yoga-la-tes most mornings,” John said slowly as to get the words right. “And I’ve come to understand these movements she does keep her formidable.”

Claire regarded Dr. Granger. “Pi-la-tes?”

“Pilates,” the man repeated more confidently. “It’s becoming all the rage in my time. My wife got Hermione hooked on it a couple of years ago.” He smiled fondly. “They’d go to classes together.”

“I’m assuming it’s some form of exercise and wouldn’t cause her to become ill.”

“No.”

“I need to give her a vaginal examination, but first things first.” She took the “blood pressure cuff” from Dr. Granger. “Daniel, if you could go through her medical supplies and try finding something that may be of any use. Even if it’s to treat symptoms.”

Dr. Granger did as she bade, rifling through the items and instruments on the spare bed, his hands hovering over something round and clothed in fabric. It sort of resembled a canteen of outstanding quality. He unscrewed the lid and sniffed the inner contents before recapping it.

“What is that?” asked John.

“Have you found anything?” Claire called over her shoulder.

“Dean said…” Dr. Granger paused, clearing his throat to attempt to erase the terror in his voice. “Dean said this was a healing potion. An excellent one.”

Claire teetered her head from side to side and mouthed ‘healing potion’. “Well…with any luck, it may help. John, help keep her mouth open.”

“What do you think ails her?” asked John, approaching the bedside. “Is it the baby?”

The woman’s whiskey-hued observation hesitantly came to rest on his face and then she hurriedly averted her gaze. “I suppose. This does only happen during pregnancy.”

“It’s preeclampsia,” commented Dr. Granger, screwing the cap back on tightly and returning it to the bed. “A death sentence in this time. And I’m not giving this to her. I watched Dean brew this. There’s a high amount of um…protein factor in it. It could very well make things worse.” He scratches at bearded jawline. “Or it could’ve very well caused it which is why I’m not going to give her a drop. Perhaps she had a sip of it before she gave some to me.”

“Well, we must try something.”

“Caesarean.” Claire touched her wrinkled brow. Under her breath, she muttered, “No, of course not.”

Dr. Granger approached, his pallor turning ashen. “It’ll kill them both.”

“I beg your fu—”

“Did you bring penicillin?” she asked, speaking over John. “Or anything like it?”

“Yes.” The man clenched his teeth. “But with all due respect, Dr. Fraser, I will not allow you to be carving into my daughter like a Sunday roast. Even if I did, I don’t have the appropriate instruments, and it’s doubtful you do, either.”

Shifting her gaze to the side, Claire swallowed, her glass face showing her unease. “I’ve performed countless of caesareans, Dr. Granger.”

“In a surgical theater with sterilized instruments and electricity.” His lips curled in faint disgust. “In the 60s. Methods of cesarean have changed, you know.”

Claire’s lips thinned, and she lifted her chin haughtily. “I imagine you could do so much bloody better as a dentist, Dr. Granger.”

For a moment, Granger seemed confident in himself but then his posture slumped, and he shook his head. “I can likely walk you through the newer method, but let’s not forget about anesthesia. We can’t be doing anything of the sort without it.”

“Dr. Granger, please,” John begged, touching his chest. His heart painfully thudded beneath his palm. He was feeling faint and agitated. The reality of the situation began to press down on him like he was being crushed down under an olive press. He braced himself against the bed’s poster, his legs feeling as though they were filled with gravy.

Hermione and the child may die.

In this very bed.

In front of him.

“Let me go in search for Thomas,” John proposed, the idea slinging clumsily from his mouth, although he dreaded leaving. Terrified to return and find a white, blood-soaked sheet covering his wife’s corpse. “She was calling for him earlier.”

The harrowing possibility of returning to Mount Josiah and informing Willie of Hermione’s passing made John’s stomach revolt.

“F-Forgive me.” John braced himself against one of the bed's posters, feeling as if he should faint.

Claire left Hermione’s side, Dr. Granger quickly taking her place, and came to John’s aid. She rubbed John’s back whilst guiding him to sit down at the table.

“It’s going to be all right,” she said, but John heard the splinter of doubt.

“You don’t know that." His eyes began to sting and his throat swell. “And I don’t know quite what I’ll do if I must return home without her. It’s been her and Willie since November. Losing her will, Claire…it will destroy him. Christ, it will destroy me. We can’t be without her.” Macerating trepidation overcame him having said his fear aloud. Wetness, hot and slick threatened to pour from his eyes and down his cheeks. He pressed the heels of his palms to them to stem the flow. “Claire, do you think this happened because of something I did?”

“What do you mean?” Claire’s chilly hand cupped rested on his cheek and then patted his shoulder. “Are you afraid you got her sick? Are you not...John Grey, are you not clean? Did you bring something home to her?"

He shook his head. “I'm not infected. I’ve been…Christ, Claire, I’ve been rather persistent and…and rough with her these past few days since my return home.”

Her hand left his face, and she straightened, frowning down at him in maternal dismay. “I see,” she said, her words drawn out. “How rough?”

“What do you mean rough?” Dr. Granger seethed, storming towards them.

Claire put herself between them, her hands up and ready to placate. “No, John,” she started, though her gaze rested pointedly on Dr. Granger. “Enthusiastic intercourse wouldn’t have caused this. Given your clinical expertise, Dr. Granger, I assume you’d agree.”

“I stand by what caused this, Dr. Fraser,” clipped Dr. Granger. “The potion, but this man hurt my daughter in other ways.”

“I imagine they both did a fair bit of harming one another,” Claire said. “And if we’re taking score, you can’t argue that Hermione has bested John. Not that it matters who lied the most, but as someone who knows a few dirty secrets about this man, Hermione’s are vastly more terrifying and exceedingly more numerous.”

“I’m not without fault. I’ve spoken and thought ill of her at times like any frustrated husband and lover would,” John ceded to Granger, sitting up in his chair. “But I would never purposefully inflict physical harm on her.”

A shameful, though titillating memory of the previous night emerged in John’s mind of him landing a sharp smack on her pink round bottom when things became quite heated in their lovemaking.

She hadn’t liked it one bit and told him as much.

For penance, her palms performed savage retributions to his own arse tenfold.

He liked it.

Immensely.

She had classified him a most vile, wicked boy.

And he’d liked that, too.

Down to her starched chemise, John forgot himself and unthinkingly allowed Claire remove Hermione’s left lacey glove while he removed her right.

“What’s this?” asked Claire, her skimming over Hermione’s scarred letters on her forearm and then repositioned herself to get a better view. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, what is this?”

With surprising cognizance and strength, Hermione yanked her arm out of Claire’s grasp and rolled onto her right side, pointedly away from her father, and tucked away her bared limb. Her eyes were open, but barely so.

“He mustn’t see.” Her voice so low and soft, John barely heard her. “John, don’t let him see.” Tears leaked from her eyes, and her chest stuttered. “He can’t know.”

Claire’s glared daggers at John’s panicked expression. “Did you do that to her?”

“I beg your pardon, what kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

“What are you talking about?” said Dr. Granger, approaching from behind Claire, his sight falling to his daughter’s fetal-like form. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”

“There’s a horrid mark on her arm,” Claire spat in vehemence. Her accusatory glare shifted from John to a confused Dr. Granger. “Carvings. Like someone took a rusted knife and hacked at her. There were letters. Spelling out—”

“No!” Hermione attempted to sit up but only managed to shift onto her back. Her arm was nestled to her chest, and she grimaced through harsh panting while her brown eyes met her father’s.

Her throat bobbed.

Fuck , though John and eloquently so, mind. Her father didn’t know about it, nor her mother.

“Show me, Hermione,” Dr. Granger ordered, the tone firm.

She shook her head. “I can’t. You’ll be…you’ll be furious.”

“It’s distressing her, Dr. Granger,” John attempted, his voice wavering as he returned to Hermione’s side. He placed one of his clammy hands protectively on her hunched shoulder. “Perhaps we ought to…”

Dr. Granger’s vicious, fatherly glower robbed him of the rest of the sentence. John found himself dithering, not at the man wanting to take away his wife, but a father. His wife’s father, and John was reminded that he too was a father, and would want to know about Willie’s injuries and those who have harmed him, matterless of his age.

Sighing, he rubbed Hermione’s arm and then her back. “My dear, it will never be the right time to show him, but he has to know. He’s your father and from what I understand, went to great lengths to get here to you. You must show him.”

The one on her ribs could wait for another day. A father could handle only so much.

She pinned him with a glance of revolting betrayal. “Why, you insolent little... Please go get my wand, John. Right now.”

John was not entirely sure what she’d do with the discarded stick underneath the table, nor did he trust himself to touch it. What if he incidentally waved the peculiar object and something catastrophic took place?

Shaking his head no, he took her hands in his. “You’d want to know if it was our children.”

“Well, that’s…” She sputtered, her brows pinched. “No. He’ll tell my mum, and she’ll...it’ll all destroy her. She’ll never forgive herself and will never speak to me again.”

“Show me,” Dr. Granger said.

“No.”

“Hermione Jean,” her father attempted, his voice betraying his lack of patience.

At the use of her true middle name, John noticed the stiffening in her spine and caution in her eyes, but even then, he knew she was far from caving to her father’s demand.

“I’m not a child anymore, Dad. Stop treating me like one.”

A look not unlike Hal’s when vexed with his eldest washed over Dr. Granger’s features.

Claire, bless her, noticed Dr. Granger’s change in demeanor and attempted to keep the peace. “This is all causing Hermione to get worse—now Fr…I mean, Dr. Granger. Now isn’t the time or place.”

John did not step out of the way entirely to accommodate Dr. Granger’s person but did allow him enough space at his daughter’s bedside.

“Show me.”

Two words. Not a question but a demand from a man, a father, who would not bow to or ignore any more of his daughter’s secrets.

Even Claire broke her resolve, only to replace it with motherly exhaustion. Her long fingers rubbed the center of her forehead, and she sniffed. “Let your father see it, sweetheart. We’ll get nowhere fast with helping you until you do.”

Clearly reluctant and breathing out a long sigh of distress, she squeaked out, “Promise me you won’t get upset.”

“I will remain as calm as I can muster.” The reply was both solemn and gentle. “And I will leave the chaos for your mother. I won't hide anything from her, and you will not a moment longer when we get home.”

“I hid it to protect you and Mum.”

“We are your parents. You are about to become one and will fully understand what that means. There are unharmful secrets children may keep from their parents, and then there are lies. If you have grown into a liar, Hermione, it was not something your mother and I taught you to be, nor was it encouraged.”

“For God’s sake, fine!” Her body uncoiled, and she lifted her arm as her sight fixated on a far corner, deadening.

It was as if she were hiding within herself as to not be present for what would unavoidably come next.

Her father’s less-than-ideal reaction.

There was a sharp intake of breath and then a deafening silence. John swiveled his attention from Dr. Granger to the scar he knew intimately well. Just last night whilst she slept, he traced the angry red letters with the pad of his finger and delivered a series of most gentle, chaste kisses.

Though it was far from her place, leave it to Claire to break the silence by asking, “What happened?”

Several moments passed before Hermione spoke. “I can’t bear to say.”

John cleared his throat when Hermione didn't speak further. “She told me a horrible woman did this to her. Was that true, darling?”

She nodded, her focus still afar.

“Here?” hissed Claire. “Who was it? Was it in Jamaica? Tell me right now, young lady."

Hermione tore her vacant stare from the corner to him and then to her disquieted father. She lowered her arm and let it rest on the bed. “It happened during that time. When you and Mum were in Australia.”

“Christ,” her father blasphemed. He sneered at John dispassionately. “Get up, I need to sit.”

“I do, too,” Claire mumbled, scurrying over to the table to sit down where John reluctantly joined her.

“I know I had said I was perfectly safe, and I was in hiding the entire time. No one dangerous ever found me, and I was never physically harmed.”

“You told me.” began Dr. Granger, “that it was just Harry and Ron who were out and about. You were at the Burrow under the severe protection of Molly and Arthur, and they told me and your mother as much. Ron did, too. Harry said he and Ron would sometimes pop in, and you’d give them information they needed to help with everything that was happening. You were dispatching messages and unravelling codes.”

Hermione sat up to rest in an inclined position, undoubtedly feeling unsafe and vulnerable. A stray tear trickled down her cheek. “That wasn’t true. I was with Harry and Ron. I w-was at the school during the battle.”

John felt the blood drain from his face. A battle? His wife was in a battle?

Claire's hand rested on her womb, horrified. "What?" She gawked at John for answers, and he had none.

Dr. Granger buried his face in his hands, muffling his garbled, “Oh, my fucking hell.”

The man shot to his feet and kicked a leg of the chair which launched into the wall and left dent in the plaster. Claire lurched, touching her chest whilst Hermione whimpered. “Daddy, please.”

“You were eighteen years old! You were a child!”

“Eighteen-year-olds serve and fight for their country all the time,” she argued, lifting her chin. “They aren’t children and neither was I.”

“Yes, you were,” her father growled. “You were my child. My daughter. My fucking everything from the moment I held you in my arms.”

“And how do you think I feel about you and Mum?” Hermione clamored to her knees with much difficulty, her features further reddening. “I wasn’t just fighting for others like me. I was fighting for you. Everything!” Hermione grunted in frustration, her arms flailing, and she toppled over to her side. Regardless, she continued her speech. “Everything I’ve done in my adult life has been dedicated in keeping my family safe!”

“Safe from the truth!”

“Safe from being killed!” Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth, and she suppressed a scream. Her eyes pinched shut, and she shook her head as if chastising herself for hurling a deeply unsavory puzzle piece towards a dastardly jigsaw she’d rather would’ve left incomplete and, God-willing, forgotten.

Silence then enveloped the room, and Dr. Granger braced himself against the dresser, smearing a hand down his face. “The war is over, or so you and everyone has said. Blaise taking care of us is just a precaution and to evade Narcissa’s peskiness.”

“It’s not.” Energy visibly leaked out of Hermione. The argument was taxing her dearly and had John not valued his own arse, he'd intervene. Though Hermione was clearly ill, and each second of remaining conscious proved increasingly difficult, John very well knew Hermione's capability of catching second winds in order to further rally her cause. “There will always be those who believe people like Dean and I don’t belong. And because Harry’s my best friend, and I did play a huge part in the war, I’ve made enemies.  If I had been smart, I would’ve left you and Mum in Australia believing—”

“Don’t you say that.” Dr. Granger grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and lifted her to her knees, shaking her. “Don’t you even think it, Hermione.”

Hermione all but fell into his arms, sobbing. “It was selfish of me to bring you and Mum back. But I missed you so much, and I couldn’t bear not seeing either of you again.”

“No, love.” Dr. Granger held her tight. “Your mother and I the entire time kept feeling like were missing something in our hearts terribly important. When the spell was lifted and we saw you, it was like…it was like seeing you born all over again.”

Hermione burrowed into her father’s neck and wept uncontrollably. “I love you so much, Daddy.”

In that moment, John found the well-planned argument he’d concocted in persuading Hermione to stay with him and Willie utterly and agonizingly irrelevant.

“She won’t even consider for a moment remaining here with me, will she, Claire?” he asked quietly. “She doesn’t love me like you love Jamie.”

Claire arched her brows and poured him a cup of lukewarm tea. “Do you love her like Jamie loves me?”

“I think I could,” he said, dodging Claire’s doubtful frown. “If given the chance. Given the time. Alas, she and I started most scandalously. Not ideal at all. I didn’t even properly court her, Claire.”

“Hmm.”

“But even if I did now, woo her and love her like she deserves, I can’t compete with that.” John gestured to the man and daughter. “Hermione says she loves me…in her way, but she would’ve never on her life given me that kind of honestly.” He removed the flask from his vest and poured it into his teacup. “No matter how hard I kicked a chair or how loud I said fuck, I would’ve received white lies and fellatio to distract me.”

Claire coughed into her teacup and placed it back on the table, patting her chest to clear her throat.

“I beg forgiveness, that was crude of me, my dear.”

Claire placed her freezing pale hand over his. “Do remember you are a father yourself and someone’s child. Would you be able to give up your parents?”

“My father died when I was young.” John was not particularly pleased to sally down that lane of thought. “My mother…well, I love her most dearly and yet, I imagine it’s different between fathers and daughters. From what I gather, even more so in Hermione’s time.”

“Parents were holding onto children longer in my time. I imagine even more so in hers. Fathers are starting to treat their daughters equally to their sons. Sometimes they even favor them over their sons.”

“That’s not entirely unheard of now,” John commented, thinking of Dottie and Hal’s incapability of denying her every whim.

“Or even place certain expectations on them more difficult to achieve,” added Claire. “Hermione comes from a time and place where it is illegal for her not to go to school.”

"Illegal?"  John sputtered. "She doesn't get a choice? Parents can't choose for their children?"

"No."