Tom's well-laid plans were succeeding, he could tell. Damien's left eyelid was convulsing sporadically, his teeth clenched in an effort to halt the unconscious twitching. It was pointless. His pain was visible to everyone in the room. Hermione sat in the corner seat next to Argus, her grin catlike, her eyes feral. For himself, Argus was having trouble holding in the laugh that kept bloating up from deep in his throat. Diane, as always, looked casually unaffected by the events unfolding in her living room, and Darcy had decided that now was the correct time to teeter on the banister as if he were an acrobat on a tightrope.

Melusine grunted and continued to attempt to convince her husband that this was a bad idea. Frankly it was a miracle that after all these years she still thought she could convince Thomas Granger of anything. Most people would have given up by now. Most people had given up by now.

"Darling," she hissed through gritted teeth, "wouldn't it be so nice if you and I were to take a turn about the garden?"

Tom grinned.

"What a positively wonderful idea, Mel," he responded cheerfully and her posture hardened. The man was going to kill her one day, she was sure.

Tom turned to the other occupant sitting on the couch between Damien and himself.

"Would you like to accompany us, dear? The grounds here aren't so large as at the Manor, but they are rather beautiful if I do say so myself. Our gardener is quite the revolutionary."

Diane's face lit up for a split second before turning back to stone. She kept her head buried in the ancient tome she was holding, pretending not to be glad to have a front seat to the drama unfolding in the room around her. Tom nearly shook his head. Anyone who knew Didi knew she could only read Parselscript, and The Common Arts of Cooking certainly wouldn't have held her attention for half a second even as a picture book. Damien also knew this, and it was getting on his nerves that his sister was being so obvious about enjoying his sorrow. But the girl beside him was speaking, and he loved her voice, so he bared with it (even if this embarrassing act had been going on for far too long already, and he wondered which of his so-called friends he'd have to skin when they got back to school next term for letting the cat out of the bag. He hoped it was Sirius. The guy already owed him ten galleons and it would be far too annoying and fiddly trying hex two people at once).

"I'd love to!" the girl – his girl – exclaimed cheerily, clasping her hands over her chest as if praying. Damien was praying. So far today, his father had somehow managed to magic up the childhood photos he thought he had sent to Hades along with the Jar of Miseries, tell every embarrassing story he had Obliviated from history, and crack the absolute corniest jokes in the Universe – he supposed the Mirror of Yggdrasil had helped his old man out with that. The damned thing never shut up (and boy, if it was damned before, it was going to be several times moreso the next time he managed to get into the Keeping Room). Sometimes it was so annoying being related to the top two magical demonologists in the world. Well, Grandma was alright, except when she so clearly was enjoying the discomfort of her Favourite Blond Male Grandchild. And also when interrupted during her reading time. No one but Tom seemed to ever really know what Hermione was reading, and that was probably because the books she liked were filled with screaming pages and weird symbols. You know, the stuff eighteen year olds usually don't want to killed by.

As they traversed the garden, Damien sunk into himself. His mother, whom he had previously believed to be on his side, was hissing along in broken English mixed with her native Parseltongue about how he had been held back a two grades in primary school due to his inability to comprehend human languages. The figures in front of him blurred as he zoned back out of the conversation.

Grandma had been the one to get him out of that situation, he remembered. Hermione, in usual Hermione fashion, ruthlessly sought out and restored a very important locket in time for Damien's eighth birthday. It had supposedly helped one of his ancestors to understand the languages being spoken around them a long time ago, but had broken when that person did something bad. What that bad thing was and who had committed it wasn't spoken of, but the youth had a fairly good idea of the details. After all, he wasn't that stupid, and despite what Didi said he did study a lot. Of course, the locket was more of a patch than a fix. He had to wear it all the time, or else rely on his family to communicate through the language barrier for him (which would have driven him insane, honestly). So, the locket stayed. Anything was better than being labelled with 'vocal retardation' as his second year teacher, Miss Plimp had so eloquently put, before recommending him off to some barbaric speech therapy course that lasted two years, and was a lot like boarding school, but with more arseholes, or so he had gathered from the one time he'd stole-borrowed the Space-Spinner and ended up there.

He'd blame his serpentine mother for the speech issues, but his father was a born Parseltongue, which meant there had to be some naga, gorgon, water sprite, or – Merlin forbid – dragon in his family line somewhere. Damien often pondered if he should feel alone in his plight, though the rest of his family being affected by the same strange genetic defects dampened that feeling somewhat.

There was Diane obviously, who was homeschooled by choice. She could speak perfectly (even with the locket, he had a lisp), though often chose not to. Her reasoning was that if she couldn't understand human languages when they were written down, why should she expend any effort speaking them? Damien thought this was lazy and callous of her, as Hermione and Argus had both managed to master Parseltongue perfectly well for their sakes. At least, that was until he moved into the room next to hers and heard Didi muttering out the letters and portions of words she tried so hard to understand in secret every night. He didn't have the heart to tell her she was terrible at silencing charms. Mostly because he hated lisping over words that had 's' sounds in them, but also partially because of brotherly love. He wasn't completely heartless. There were some who would even go so far as to call him 'clingy' which he would vehemently deny because of course he was only hugging them for their body heat.

Then came Darcy, who wriggled up any vertical surface he could find, and had little patches of scale over his body. Most of these patches made it easier for him to latch onto things he shouldn't, like the banister this afternoon, or the outside of Damien's window in the middle of the night, or the ceiling. He had yet to speak at all, though he was already five years old, and showed very little understanding of his own mortality. Mother had assured him on many occassions that this was what she had actually expected when having a child and that it was normal within her tribe for younglings to act this way, and actually she was a little bit disappointed that her eldest son had turned out so human right from the get go.

"Sssssaasssiiiiissssss sssssaaaaaaasssssshhhhhhaa hisssssii," Mother had said.

My love for you exists despite that.

Damien rolled his eyes from his place at the back of group wandering through their snow-covered garden.

"But I love you anyway," he muttered. He was, he admitted to himself, a little jaded.

Tom noticed his son's sudden lack of energy and wondered if he had gone too far for approximately six point two seconds, when Damien's glossed over eyes met his with a faraway look that usually meant he was reminiscing about something neither fortunate nor unpleasant. He supposed he had bored the boy out of his embarrassed state with all the old stories that yes he knew his son had tried to dispose of and the photographs that yes he had known were stapled to the Jar of Miseries. Persephone had been particularly taken with the pictures depicting a tiny, giggling, usually-naked cherub and had pestered her husband for more. Tom received the photographs back in record time.

During those six point two seconds of doubt, however, he managed to ponder many things. His job was demanding, and despite his mother and his own best efforts, there was a darkness that clouded their summer estate, where all the dark artifacts they hadn't yet disabled or destroyed rested. The Screaming Library didn't help the mood, nor did the Haunted Library on the third floor, just under where Damien's feet would be when he entered his room. Tom knew living in such conditions weren't optimal, but his work had spilled over into the Christmas holidays. He needed his family to keep him sane. He needed to renew the protective spells on the dark artifacts. He knew Damien probably needed to get away from his need, and fast.

And yet, he had surprised them all by bringing a girl home with him. Tom saw how his son's eyes would light up whenever she was near (which was very often). He saw how he would slacken his shoulders, less tense than Tom had seen him in years, since he had been told he wasn't like other children – not wizards, not muggles. How he would be attentive to her needs before she realised she even needed anything, and thought that maybe Damien hadn't thought about how his family would react to him bringing a girl home, but rather how he, himself, would react to a person who brought out the sunshine in him, just as he seemed to make her own light brighter.

So his son was in love, basically.

And his son's friends were sworn to secrecy about the rather abrupt, clandestine meeting that had occurred yesterday evening in a certain broom closet at Hogwarts about just who this young lady was to said son.

Regulus had gazed like a startled lamb and claimed not to know anything about the matter. Sirius pestered him with questions about how he managed to sneak into Hogwarts and if he was going to abduct them, and if so, could they stop off at Fortescue's before they were bound and gagged for some ice cream? Severus had been very levelheaded about the matter, insisting the two were, indeed, a couple and despite his annoying comrade's boasting, it had been he who introduced the two, not the Black boy. Also, his son had a very expensive ring tucked away in his cloak pocket and was planning to propose on Boxing Day. He had originally opted for Christmas, but realised there would be too much fussing and raucous behaviour to concentrate on anything other than how loud everyone was being. And honestly, if the unrehearsed carnival sideshow that was his family didn't make her run for the hills before dawn, he hadn't wanted to hold her to a 'yes' made the day before. That would be unfair of him.

So his son was really in love, basically.

Hermione was unusually quiet all throughout the holidays, and whilst everyone – even Tom – neglected to notice, Argus worried about his wife.

On the day they sent Damien and his betrothed (she had said yes) off to Hogwarts for the last time, he finally managed to pull her away from her ever-increasing pile of work. Fingers knotted through hers', he absently stroked the palm of her hand with his thumb.

"Are you alright, dear?" he asked softly. Hermione looked away to the tiles, sighing.

"I just feel a little lost, Argus," she managed, but sounded overly glum, even to her own ears. Argus fiddled with her fingertips.

"I think we'd all feeling a little bit lost if we were living thirty hour days."

Hermione chuckled at the reference to her altered Time-Turner.

"Hey! It's very efficient!" she squawked, "I wouldn't have time to sleep without those extra hours."

"I'm sure it is, but you never sleep anyway," he replied playfully, pulling her in for a kiss. Hermione squealed and pulled away.

"You dirty old man!" she accused, "There are children present!"

Argus made a good show of looking at the room around them.

"Children? I don't see any children."

"You can never know where Darcy is," she stated, "And Didi is very quiet. Not to mention how sneaky Tom is..."

Hermione sighed.

"But Tom's not a child anymore. I keep forgetting."

"Is that what's been getting you down?" Argus prodded. Hermione shook her head.

"No. No, not really."

She sighed again.

"It's just-," she started, leaning against the side of her desk, running fingers through her hair, "It's just, I know I've done the right thing, but everything still seems so wrong, sometimes, you know?"

Argus nodded and hummed in agreement. He had absolutely no idea what she meant, but he had learned over the years that was just what Hermione did sometimes. He supposed with all that knowledge and willpower, it was impossible not to say confusing things sometimes. At least she was talking now, not wallowing in piles of parchment.

"I never, ever dreamed I would be here right now, even as I saw it happening," she continued, oblivious to her husband's obliviousness, "Like, I'm a grandmother. I adopted a child because of horrible, horrible circumstances, and...now my grandchild is engaged. And you!" she exclaimed all of a sudden, causing Argus to jump, "I never knew you were such a nice person! Or so attractive! Before I met you, I thought you were a bit of a git, actually. But then, I had already met you before, and might I just say you were not very nice to be near. I don't think you ever showered."

Hermione paused momentarily, inspecting her husband with wide eyes, as if she hadn't seen him every day for the past thirty-ish years.

"I'm a little bit offended, but do go on," he insisted, waving an impatient hand, "You need to get this off your chest."

Hermione nodded, eyes glazing over.

"Yes, I do. I came here to save my friend, knowing I could never go back to what I had. Who knows? Maybe if I stayed I could have saved him? But I left. To save him. Contradictory, I know, but what isn't in this life. So, to save my friend, I saved a little boy, who saved me, who saved a water nymph from drowning of all things, and married her. Oh! And I married you, of course, somewhere in between."

Argus snorted. His wife didn't seem to notice, or else ignored it, continuing on her spiel.

"And I do love you. And then my son had three children, and I'm pretty sure we should expect a fourth soon. Mel's acting all twitchy again. And we all save the world together, or at least the majority of us do, by collecting and caring for these dark artifacts, but just now, my grandson became a fiance, and he has a fiancee, and I'm pretty sure she's been saving him a little bit, just like he and Didi and Darcy save Tom, but the problem is..."

Hermione trailed off there and stood stock still for long enough to concern Argus. He coughed nervously.

"The problem is?" he inquired. Hermione's eyes snapped to his, and suddenly her gaze was less like mist and more like fire.

"The problem is that if Lily Evans keeps saving Damien, I won't have had a friend to save in the first place! I just don't know how to feel! I'm angry, but I'm happy, but I'm sad, and terribly lonely, and that was such a small part of my life, but it's led to the rest of it, which has been very long, yet seems to have been so much shorter than the beginning! Probably because it's been far less stressful!" she added despairingly.

Hermione visibly deflated.

"Much less stressful. But, I want both of them to live happy lives. They deserve it. Both of them deserve it so much. It's not like one should-"

Hermione cut herself off again.

"Neither can live while the other survives..." she muttered, morbid fascination evident in her voice. She flicked her gaze back to Argus, who by this time was wondering if they should call a medic.

"I...I chose," her voice was weak, "I chose which one would survive. Who would live; I chose that! I came and I screwed around with the one thing witches and wizards really shouldn't screw around with. The thing we're explicitly warned not to tamper with repeatedly! And I- now he won't even be- I can't-"

The witch fell to the floor in a flood of tears that no one, not Argus, nor Tom, nor Melusine or any of the children could rouse her from. And as Hermione's heart shattered, she came to a sickening realisation.

Dumbledore had known.

Albus Dumbledore had known that, somehow, should she touch that boy in the orphanage and take him home, she would succeed in saving him where he had failed. Dumbledore had used her to correct his mistake. The mistake which led to her childhood best friend being born. The person she had come here to save, and he wouldn't even be born. Because he was a mistake that time wanted to take away. Neither Tom nor Harry could truly live, even when in harmony with each other. They were surviving. And they were impossible to kill.

Dumbledore had known that it would be (theoretically) easier to get young Tom out of survival mode than to slog on in a war against two wizards who hated each other, but came together due to their lusting after the same power. But he had also known that a happy, living Tom would wipe Harry out of existence somehow. And she hadn't even thought about it. Not once in all those years had she considered the prophecy. If she had, she might have murdered her son in his sleep the day she took him in. She would have been able to justify it easily enough. But-

Hermione emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor, still sobbing. The waves of nausea came again and again, causing her to retch. She dimly registered a shaky pair of hands holding her up.

"Mum? Mum?! Are you alright? Should I call a mediwitch?"

Her son.

And he sounded so, so very frightened.

Hermione closed her eyes and muttered an apology to the one person in the Universe who would not hear her.

Sorry Harry.

Tears welled in her eyes again, but she did not open them, nor did she let them fall.

I'm so sorry, Harry. I loved you. I love you...but I love my son too. No, it's not about who was with me the longest, or who needed me more. Don't think you did anything wrong. Even when you were possessed by greed, you were amazing. A light in the dark, even when the dark took over. I just...I just need Tom more than I need you, now. And even when I didn't need him, when I first met him and saw his face, I wanted him. I wanted him to need me, and to need him back. I didn't realise it until it was too late, and I apologise for failing you, but I'm not sorry that I saved my son, or that I have a happy family, and peace instead of constant, incessant horridness. I miss you – I always have – but I would miss this boy so much that I'd probably die of it, and I hope you wouldn't want that, even after me betraying you like this.

Hands were shaking her again.

"Mum?"

Tom's breath came out in shuddering puffs of air, his eyes wide, fingernails clamped painfully tight into Hermione's shoulders. He relaxed minutely when she turned her face upwards, blinking away what must have been tears. She was pale, moreso than usual.

"Mum, are you okay?" he asked, voice steadying, "Dad said you weren't feeling yourself."

Hermione smiled up at her little (grown up) ball of sunshine and squeezed his hand.

"You know me, son. I just had a bit of a hiccup."

Tom frowned, not reassured at all. For as long as he had had a mother, she had been the strongest person he knew.

"Mum," he pressed, "are you sure you're alright? You were crying like you were in pain, and the carpet-"

Hermione let out a laugh that resounded throughout the Library.

"I know, I know. I puked on the carpet. I'm okay, really."

She smiled softly.

"Mum..."

"Thomas, I know I've told you this before, but it really isn't a big deal. It just isn't. Not anymore."

Tom couldn't help but remain skeptical even as his mother returned to her (seemingly) normal self.

"It sure seems like one," he muttered, helping her to stand. Inside, he was still shaken. He couldn't lose his mother. The grief would drive him crazy.

Don't worry. She's not going anywhere.

Thomas started at the voice that had broken through his consciousness. He was certain it hadn't been his own.

Who are you? he thought, mentally bringing up a list of all the dark objects in the house that could communicate through thought.

The voice laughed jovially.

You don't have to worry about me, it assured him, I just came to check in on an old friend. I heard she was in trouble, but since you're here, I think it's time for me to leave.

Thomas was instantly defensive, his grip on Hermione's hand tightening.

You attempted possessing my mother? That's why she was sick? he accused.

The voice snorted.

No, of course not. I'm a form of energy, not a demon. Yeesh.

I don't trust you.

Funny, I never trusted you until Hermione picked you up and turned you into a human being.

What?

It doesn't matter. Tell her I forgive her. Harry forgives Hermione. Hermione has done no wrong.

What do you-?

Sorry, I've got to go! There's an opening in 2020.

Tom was thoroughly perplexed by this point in time.

An opening in twenty...twenty?

Yup! The voice appeared rushed, If I hurry, I might even get to meet you in person!

What on Earth do you mean?

You'll know me when you see me, Grandpa!

Tom was left to blink stupidly at the wall of books in front of him.

"Grandpa...?" he muttered.

Only if you live that long!

Tom jerked, surprised at the voice having come back. It sounded out of breath.

"Only if I live that long?!" he exclaimed aloud, concerning his mother greatly.

"Tom?" she queried.

Don't be so uptight, Gramps. It's really not a big deal. Trust me. I've done it at least three times now.

And with that, the voice was gone again, and Thomas said the words which made Hermione tear up one last time that day.

Harry forgives Hermione. Hermione has done no wrong.

A/N: Well, there goes my baby. It's done. I didn't even think this would be more than a oneshot, so thank you to everyone who helped convince me to write more (and subsequently become more attached to it. I feel like I'm crying inside, but I'm also proud). Heads up, if you're following H:AM or any of my other stories...I sincerely apologise. I've been writing other stuff, and sick, and blah blah blah, you know the drill.

See you in the next story!

Love,

Lucy~!