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however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
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I'm back, with chapter 2, much quicker than I'll be with Chapter 3 (still getting into the routine of posting to FFnet and Portkey). As you may have gleaned from chapter 1, there are two stories running in parallel: one starts in (roughly) 2019, with the Second Generation all in school and the adults' lives falling down around them. The second starts in 2058, with Ginny's funeral. The 2058 story will always be the section before the break, and the 2019 story will always be after. Eventually the two stories will converge, but I'll cut out long years of not much new happening and focus on the important moments only.
For now, enjoy, and don't forget to leave a comment letting me know what you think: love, hate, or "meh."
Chapter 2: Lies
"What was she doing there?"
Harry groaned. All her life, Lily Potter had been difficult; there was too much of her mother in her, too much of the hard-headedness that occasionally made Harry try to punch holes in random walls. Of all of his children, she had taken Ginny's teachings closest to heart: the only girl, the youngest child, and the spitting image of her mother in virtually every way. So naturally she hated Hermione, just like Mummy would have wanted. He groaned again; he was too old for this bullshit. "She was there for the same reason everyone else was; your mother's funeral."
His daughter frowned. "Mum wouldn't have wanted her there."
"You don't know that." He returned, unconvincingly. Ginny Potter had been a lot of things, but she had not been forgiving. She had borne a terrible grudge against Hermione since the first time she had come home to find Harry comforting the broken woman, and she pursued it with the same fire that she pursued everything else. He couldn't prove it, but he knew that most of the hardships in Hermione's life, after the divorce, had been Ginny's design. So no, Ginny would certainly not have wanted Hermione to attend her funeral.
"She had no right to be there. She betrayed her family; your family."
Harry rubbed his eyes, James' pleading request still fresh in his mind. It was so hard to be polite, even to his own daughter, but he was trying. Oh, how he was trying. "What happened was a long time ago, and you were very young."
"I still remember what that woman did. I remember…"
"No," Harry interrupted, loudly. People turned, concerned, but he ignored them. "You were told. Your mother told you, and your grandmother, and Uncle Ron."
"Are you telling me they lied?" She asked incredulously, as though the idea of the Weasley family telling a falsehood had never entered her mind; in fairness to her, it hadn't.
Harry cried out, raising his hands to the heavens as though praising some divine miracle. "Of course they did. They couldn't handle the truth, so they fed you kids that bullshit to keep you on their side."
She slapped him. Hard. Now, it must be said that Harry was in excellent shape for a man pushing eighty; despite arthritis in his back and hands and knees, he had exercised regularly all through his life, and done Pilates, and cycled, and done generally as much as he could to keep up his physical ability. But he was still an old man, and he was unsteady on his feet - especially on a damp day like this one - and when he was hit he went down.
So that was how Harry Potter found himself flat on his arse in a graveyard, cursing in new and inventive ways. Rather than helping him, as he struggled to use the nearby gravestones to hoist himself back to his feet, his daughter bent low and hissed in his ear: "I'm surprised at you, Harry. 'Family first,' that's what you taught us."
Harry snorted, and swore again as his foot slipped on some wet leaves. "Don't blame me for that one: that was your mother's line. I tried to teach you to do what was right, but I suppose that got blown out of the water."
Lily straightened, and laughed sardonically. "So now you're calling Mum a bad parent; that's awfully rich."
"She was never fucking THERE!" He yelled, finally dragging himself to his feet. "What the hell else would you call that?"
"I'd call it doing what she had to, for the good of the family. It's a hell of a lot more than you ever did."
"Lillian, you have no idea what I did for you kids."
"Isn't that typical: Harry Potter the martyr. Save it for someone who-"
"Would you both SHUT UP?" The warring Potters turned, surprised, to see James standing nearby, quivering with anger. "Can't you two stop fighting for one damned day?"
"Not if he's going to keep calling our family liars." Lily replied defiantly, shooting Harry a withering glare.
"Lily, stand down." James answered her softly, the fight suddenly drained from him. He knew what had happened, as Harry well knew. He had passed beyond the lies and discovered the truth for himself. Harry was proud of his son for that, but he knew that the boy wasn't going to tell his sister. Sometimes we prefer a lie, because the truth is too terrible to admit; it's just easier that way. Harry could understand that feeling.
So could Lily, he knew. She was inflamed with passion, staring at James in surprise and anger. Ginny had been her rock, her constant source of guidance and wisdom - of a sort - and learning that she had lied would upturn all of that. She couldn't bear to see that memory defiled, Harry knew, but knowing doesn't imply liking. "Are you taking his side?" She hissed at her brother, seething in a way that was so much like Ginny used to.
"No." He replied, a sense of finality in his voice. "I'm trying to stop the two of you from killing each other in the fucking cemetery."
It occurred to Harry that a cemetery would be the ideal place to kill someone, what with the convenient disposal implements and well-fertilized soil, but for a change he decided not to voice exactly what he was thinking. He was tired of fighting. He was tired overall, actually, and his arthritis was acting up something awful. He just wanted to get home.
While Harry was thinking all of this, Rose had taken several calming breaths. "Scorpius and I are hosting dinner tonight," She informed her father in a much more measured, through frosty, tone. "Come if you want to."
If you want to admit you were wrong, he knew she meant. Several less-than-diplomatic replies passed through his head, but she had disapparated before he could choose his favourite. Only slightly disappointed by not having the last word on his daughter, he instead turned on his son. "Didn't feel the need to tell her the truth?"
"Today wasn't the right time."
Harry knew that. He also knew that, for Lillian Luna Potter-Malfoy, it might never be the right time. He had a hard time accepting that, but he knew it all the same. Of course, as has been previously noted, knowing does not imply liking. "Seemed like the right time to me." He snapped, lying through his teeth.
James ignored it. "Don't expect you'll be coming tonight, then?"
"Smart boy."
James sighed. "You won't make things better this way, you know."
"I'm not going to keep lying about her, James." He replied, angry. He knew his son understood the truth, that Hermione Granger had not been all that Ginny and Molly Weasley had painted her as. But he couldn't, could never understand how James could live with that duplicity in his head, knowing the truth but partaking in the lie. Thinking about it just made him more angry. "She deserves better than that, and you know it."
James looked back at the freshly-turned earth, and the ornate headstone watching over it: an angel with shielding wings. Ginny had picked it out. Harry thought it looked depressing, none the more so because of the inscription it bore. "Don't we all," James whispered sadly.
Harry James Potter
1980 -
Ginny Molly Potter
1981 - 2058
***
"What is she doing here?"
Harry groaned internally, careful not to let his frustration show. He had been putting off telling his wife about Hermione's late-night visits, but as they became more frequent and the Quidditch season wound down, it had only been a matter of time before the two women were both in the house.
At least, he mused, it wasn't as bad as it could have been; he had gotten up to use the lavatory when Ginny had gotten home to find Hermione asleep on the sofa in their parlour. Had she walked in five minutes earlier she would have found her husband holding another, sleeping woman much more tightly than a wife typically likes to see. Platonic relationship or no, Harry sincerely doubted that he would have survived that experience.
But now his web of unintentional lies was starting to unravel, as such webs often do. He wasn't exactly sure why he was so hesitant to reveal everything to Ginny; this was the first time in their entire history that he had felt compelled to keep something from her. He had a sense, more than anything else, that she would not respond as he hoped she would. "She just had to get away." He replied evasively.
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Away from what?"
"Just…away. You know what Ron's like sometimes." He winced as soon as he had said the words. He really hadn't wanted to bring Ron into the conversation; Ginny was fiercely protective of her family - Weasley family trait - and in her current, suspicious state she wasn't going to take kindly to accusations against any member of it.
"Are you saying Ron's a bad husband?"
Yes, Harry thought, but didn't speak immediately. How exactly do you tell someone that their brother's favourite hobby is getting trashed and beating up his wife? "No," He answered finally, choosing his words carefully. "They're just having a row; you know how they always manage to push each other's' buttons."
She still looked suspicious, but Harry was relieved beyond measure when she seemed to accept that explanation. The relief didn't last, however, as she instead switched to a different track. "I'm just not sure I like the idea of you two being alone in the house together."
Harry blinked. This was new. "Excuse me?"
"It's just that we haven't had a lot of…quality time," She stressed the word 'quality' to obscene levels, and Harry caught on immediately, "Since James was born. I understand that men have…needs…"
Harry laughed out loud. He knew it was only going to make his situation worse, but the whole thing was so ridiculous funny that he couldn't help himself. He could decide the best part: the implication that he may have been having an affair with Hermione Granger - Weasley - in the moments after she had literally been beaten black-and-blue, or that his own wife, even after eleven years and three children, was uncomfortable talking about sex.
Exactly as expected, Ginny did not appreciate the levity of the situation. "I don't know what you find so funny, but you can't honestly tell me that you're not at all attracted to her."
Harry stopped laughing. She had him with that. Hermione Granger - fuck the 'Weasley' - was not unattractive, and Ginny knew that he saw it. She had put on some weight since Hogwarts, the curse of motherhood, but she had worked hard to lose it again, while still managing to keep the advantages pregnancy had provided certain critical areas. It was only in the past month, since her first late-night visit, that she had begun to let herself go. Even that new weight, though, she carried well. In that, as in all things, Hermione carried herself with dignity and good grace.
Ginny, on the other hand, was the only person Harry knew who had actually lost weight since Hogwarts, and that was most assuredly not a good thing. Harry hadn't seen her unclothed form in quite a few years, but he did her laundry and had noticed both her dress size and cup size steadily decreasing until, he swore, she was shopping from the children's sections. Harry didn't think such weight loss was healthy, but when pressed she only told him that it was a natural consequence of being a professional athlete. Harry doubted that very much, he had played Quidditch before and it had never made him inhumanly thin. Either way, the thought made him slightly ill.
"No," He admitted, trying both to ignore the flash of triumph in her eyes and keep the exasperation out of his voice. "But I'm not going to fuck Hermione; I couldn't do that to the kids." Her eyes narrowed. "Or to you." He added quickly.
"Still," She began slowly, clearly disbelieving. In her defence, Harry wasn't entirely sure he believed himself either. "You're only human; if she and Ron are having problems, how do I know she won't try to start something?"
Harry laughed bitterly. He almost wished Hermione would start something, anything that would break the unwavering loyalty she still, for reasons inconceivable, displayed towards her husband. It killed him: watching her go back night after night, only to return a few days later. No, Hermione wasn't going to participate in an affair; she was too stupidly loyal. Gryffindor to the end - though hopefully not literally. "Ginny, trust me: Hermione is devoted to Ron. She would cheat on him if her life depended on it." And it almost does, he wanted to say but didn't.
"Then why can't she work out her problems with him? Why does it have to be you?"
Harry was stunned. He knew why, of course, that was the easy part. But her question had blindsided him, how quickly she jumped from one track to the next. It left him confused, unable to process a response, and vulnerable. He didn't like being vulnerable. He briefly flashed back to his Auror training, where they had learned how to turn a situation to your advantage. Unfortunately, 'arguing with your wife' hadn't been part of the syllabus. Maybe it should have been.
"I don't think she needs to be burdening you with her problems." Ginny continued, a finality in her voice that had been well-learned from her mother: the one that brooked no argument.
But Harry was getting angry. Hermione had been there for him at a time when nobody else was, on more than one occasion. His wife knew that. Repaying that loyalty with abandonment wasn't in his nature. Surely his wife knew that too. "What am I supposed to say to her?" He asked sarcastically. "'I'm sorry Hermione, you're on your own'? She needs my help, and you want me to turn her away?"
"Harry. There's no need to get angry."
Her calmness. That infuriating, condescending calmness, the tone she would take with the children when explaining something they didn't quite understand. All of her words were meaningless to him compared to that calmness; it boiled his blood, and he saw red. "Like hell there's not; she's my best fucking friend!"
"I thought Ron was your best friend."
"He lost that distinction when he started beating his wife."
Shit.
"Is that what she told you?" Ginny asked coldly.
Harry blinked. He hadn't been expecting that. "What?"
Ginny scoffed. "I can't believe you don't see it."
"See what?"
"Then again, maybe I shouldn't be surprised."
"See WHAT?"
"She's making it up." She answered, slowly, in that damnably patient voice.
Harry's blood ran cold. Of all the possible outcomes he had considered, this was not one of them. Ginny was denying it. He couldn't conceive of it, how she could bring herself to ignore what was in front of her eyes. "If she's making it up, why does she show up covered in bruises?"
"Obviously she's trying to play on your sympathies."
"And why would she want to do that?"
"She's attracted to you."
He took a second to piece this information together, trying with whatever intelligence he had to see what in the bleeding hell his wife was deluding herself with. "So let me get this straight," He began slowly. "Hermione Granger, mother, promising politician, and all-around genius, is bruising herself and apparating into our sitting room at unholy hours of the night, bawling her eyes out, in the hope that I'll have sex with her?"
"See? Was that so hard to admit?"
Harry blinked. Then he blinked again. This could not be reality. This was a nightmare, but it was the worst nightmare he had ever had, and it would not end. All of reality had turned upside down.
But no, this was real. He knew, as twisted as his subconscious was, he could not conceive of this. There was, in fact, a situation so ridiculous that it had to be true, and he was living it. "You've gone mental." He told his wife, finally. Or I have, he thought.
She frowned, clearly annoyed by his refusal to believe her (in her mind) well-reasoned argument. "Why don't we call Ron and ask him?"
"NO!" He shouted, ten thousand horrible thoughts going through his head. He had always believed divination was a crock, despite the prophecy that had governed his life since birth, but if he hadn't known better he'd swear that he'd had a vision of the future, right then and there. It wasn't pretty.
If Ginny called Ron, he would deny it. He would say that their marriage was never better; he would lie through his teeth to his little sister, and she would send Hermione back to him. If Hermione was lucky, Ron wouldn't believe that she was trying to seduce Harry.
If she was lucky, maybe she'd only go to the hospital.
If she wasn't, maybe she'd go to the morgue.
"Don't tell Ron." He pleaded, begging his wife as she picked the telephone receiver up from its cradle.
"So I was right." It wasn't a question.
Harry ground his teeth, the battle warring inside him. On one side, he could make the Lion's choice and stand by what he knew to be right. It would destroy his marriage, that much he could tell, but he knew that Ginny would deliver Hermione back into the hands of her tormentor, and far worse would befall her there.
On the other hand, the Coward's choice. Hermione would still be delivered to her husband, but the consequences would be no worse than they ever were, and she had survived them before. But she would never be able to seek refuge with him again. Ginny would forbid it.
There were no other options. Hermione's parents were dead - an unfortunate side-effect of sending obliviated muggles into an environment that was home to many, many incredibly poisonous creatures - and he knew that she couldn't put her faith in anyone else. They had learned hard lessons during the War, including one that Mad-Eye would have been proud of them for: Trust No One.
But the decision had been made for him the moment he saw the things that might have been. He had seen Hermione's lifeless body, laid out on a steel table, and he knew that, for better or for worse, he would rather be a coward than have her die.
"You were right." He answered in a small voice, defeated.