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Lord Voldemort was alive and, well, obliviated.
Hermione Granger happened upon him by accident in the United States of America. The MACUSA knew; the Department of Magical Law Enforcement knew – hell – even the Unspeakables of Britain knew where the fabled immortal was.
He’d created an eight horcrux and no matter how many times they’d dissected his mind and his body, tried their hardest to break his resolve, they failed and had nothing but embarrassment to show for it. So, they obliviated him and put him in some nursing home in Florida. Keenly watched by interested parties.
It took him a couple of months to regain the ability to speak and walk – because the person who’d done the obliviating was an enemy of Voldemort’s and took this as a chance for vengeance. It set everyone’s plans back. They killed this person as punishment for their misuse of power.
Once the man was capable of being a person, he set out to integrate himself into magical society. This, apparently, didn’t take him very long. He was very charming, if harmless this time around. Most would characterize him as eccentric and too fond of blonds for his own good.
Harry didn’t know where Voldemort was. This was how secret this was. Nobody except key individuals could ever glean into the information.
And Hermione just stumbled upon him?
They were attending the same bloody conference?
About?????
Magical Creature Regulation???????
He was very passionate about it, too. There were people there who’d been forced to attend the conference by their superiors, but he was there willingly. Without a shadow of a doubt.
His face and body had been changed, obviously, through permanent magic. The eyes were charmed, however. The magic around them flickered from brown to red briefly, when agitated far too much. His accent was American. Hermione hadn’t been expecting the cockney accent of his youth, but to hear him speak with such a silly accent (to her, a British witch) was definitely unexpected.
His name was Montgomery Goldsmith.
’’Hermione Weasley.’’
No recognition. He shook hands with her. They were paired off to do some activity in groups and their egos and great minds gravitated towards one another. Hermione recognized him, though. She didn’t know how nobody else did. But nobody else was from Britain.
He asked her, halfway into forming an intricate plan about creating a whole reconstruction of the department of magical creature regulation, about her life. ’’Do you have any siblings?’’
’’No. I’m an only child.’’
’’Ah, you do seem too much to handle.’’
Hermione wasn’t even offended. She was too morbidly curious to find any of his jabs, well, jabby. Montgomery Goldsmith didn’t have any siblings, but not for a lack of trying on his parents’ side. It was macabre, was what this was. He’d woken up with a whole new identity. With parents who’d passed of old age. He had memories of attending their funerals.
’’It’s a pity,’’ Montgomery Goldsmith said, but the Voldemort in him was unmistakably there, ’’to die.’’
’’It’s a curse to be immortal.’’ Hermione whispered, her shoulders pulled back with rigidity.
’’Well, obviously.’’ He gave her a dazzling smile and laughed. ’’All of your loved ones die before you. All of your accomplishments get warped beyond repair by parties in power – because you can’t hold onto power forever, that’s just silly and maniacal. Though, I think the worst of it is that you forget who you are after a certain period of time.’’
Hermione’s hands were shaking.
Montgomery Goldsmith asked her if she was a bit too young for Parkinson’s.
Hermione tried to laugh at what was undeniably a poor attempt at a joke.
The conference ended. Montgomery Goldsmith was adamant that they keep in touch. Then at Hermione’s baffled expression he amended. ’’Of course, we don’t have to. It was just a suggestion.’’ He was so relaxed. Hermione hadn’t ever seen Lord Voldemort this relaxed in her life. ’’We’ll just be two conference buddies.’’ He elbowed her then, playfully. And then he smiled with his teeth.
Were his teeth bleached? Hermione thought, in order to try and alleviate the tension rising in her heart. All Americans bleached their teeth, her dad had said once or twice.
’’I got them done a couple of weeks ago.’’ Montgomery Goldsmith ran his tongue over his teeth.
Hermione wondered if she’d asked that aloud. Or if he’d read her mind.
Hermione didn’t keep in touch with Montgomery Goldsmith. Mostly because she wanted to forget this encounter had ever happened. She went straight for Kingsley, a retired Minister, and told him everything. The current Minister wasn’t an Order member and Hermione didn’t trust her as much.
’’He’s watched very well.’’ Kingsley said. ’’The MACUSA are aware of it. He gets yearly check-ups to ensure he doesn’t remember his life. Instead he has a new one. I could get you his file if you want it. I keep getting the updated file every year and know Montgomery Goldsmith as a man who’s completely turned his life around.’’
Hermione asked for the file.
He was muggleborn. Montgomery Goldsmith was born to two muggle tailors. Hermione obviously knew it was easier to make him muggleborn, but seeing it written there was strange. Could he have been like this had he been adopted as a child and raised in a loving family as he was led to believe?
’’Am I going to be obliviated?’’
’’Yes, Hermione.’’ Kingsley sighed. ’’I only showed you this file so you’d understand that we have this handled. He doesn’t even have a passport. Not that he’s allowed one. He is America’s problem now. We only fund them and they make sure that his knowledge is used for good.’’
’’His knowledge?’’
’’He’s extremely intelligent. Obliviating him can’t undo that. He doesn’t have the knowledge of before, but it doesn’t mean he can’t learn things at the speed, the same tenacity as before. This is a perfect solution for him.’’
’’And none of you are trying to find his eighth?’’
Kingsley didn’t say anything. It was everything Hermione needed to know.
’’Harry deserves so much more than this.’’
’’Yet you didn’t come to him to tell him. You came to me.’’
’’And I won’t be obliviated.’’
Hermione had obliviated her parents. She’d restored their memories. On her own.
Nobody, not even Harry, knew how she’d accomplished the task. Meddling with the mind was serious business. Obliviators in the Ministry were only taught to safely obliviate – never how to restore. They said it was either impossible or too difficult for even a trained professional.
It wasn’t too difficult. It just required a lot of blood. And for some ungodly reason Pig Latin.
’’Hermione, I mean this with utmost respect: nobody must know where he is. I don’t even know how you recognized him.’’
The question lingered in the air. Hermione answered it bluntly: ’’I didn’t. Not at first. But...he just kept talking and it reminded me an absurd amount of Harry – the way he held himself during DA, back in our fifth year. It was uncanny, and then I started to piece it together. Harry was a horcrux for so long. They felt similar to me. Honestly, I wasn’t one hundred percent certain until you confirmed it for me.’’
Kingsley nodded at this, pleased. It wasn’t something one could easily spot, then. He wasn’t acting like Lord Voldemort. ’’Would you want to be our spy on him? Mathilda’s getting on in years and she’s inkling to retire.’’
’’I have a husband. I have a family.’’
’’You wouldn’t uproot yourself to America all at once.’’ Kingsley said.
’’You don’t get to make this call. You aren’t Minister anymore.’’
’’No, but I’m still chief of this operation.’’ Kingsley stood from his chair. He strolled to Hermione and placed a hand on her shoulder. She raised her chin to meet his gaze. He was pleading with her. ’’It would help me to know I have someone who can handle herself.’’
’’I’ve stopped with the war. I’ve stopped being on the lookout for Voldemort.’’
’’All right.’’ His hand fell. ’’I understand that. Take care of yourself, Hermione.’’
’’Thanks, Kingsley.’’ Hermione gave him a small smile.
Against it all, they were still Order members. They carried themselves with dignity. It was one of the few things they had left over from before the war.
Hermione didn’t get obliviated. Not for a lack of trying. She simply obliviated them first and put in a memory of her successful obliviation inside their thick skulls.
Harry asked her if she had made any friends in America. He and Ginny were travelling with Ginny’s quidditch team. It was rare to see him in England. It was for the better. Not even ten years later did the fame of Harry Potter fade.
To them, the populace, Lord Voldemort had fallen dead from Harry Potter’s killing curse. So many warped and changed things in that sentence. The public was too afraid of the truth. Hermione understood why they kept everyone in the dark, but Harry deserved to know where the immortal man was.
’’I met a man named Montgomery Goldsmith.’’
They were in Hermione’s well-warded apartment. Ron was at the Burrow with his parents, helping them out with gnomes and such.
’’He sounds like a character.’’ Harry cracked a grin. ’’Such a stupendous name.’’
Hermione blinked. She was staring through Harry more than at him. He could tell.
’’You don’t like him?’’ He asked her. Hermione didn’t know how to reply. ’’Oh what, it’s not like he’s Voldemort?’’
’’About that...’’
Harry’s grin fell. It was replaced by a fearful frown. ’’Is he aware of himself?’’
’’Not that I was aware of.’’
’’He’s an excellent actor.’’
’’I know.’’
’’What did you talk about?’’
’’House Elf liberation mostly. He kept adding how stigmatized the Naga were.’’
’’Of course he’d talk about the Naga. He’s a parselmouth.’’
’’I don’t...I honestly don’t think he knows that. We only had one long conversation during a single conference.’’
Harry shook his head. None of this sounded good to him. Voldemort was far away, unattended. He was immortal and it was only a matter of time until he snapped.
’’He has an American accent.’’
At this, Harry laughed. He tried picturing it and his laughter got harder.
The next time Hermione ran into Montgomery Goldsmith was in Ohio. Muggles gravitated towards New York and such, but mages leaned into Ohio’s blistering magical force with glee. Nobody could actually explain why Ohio was so magically charged, it just was.
It was a perfect venue for a seminar.
It was almost two years after their first meeting, but Montgomery remembered her before she remembered him. ’’Hermione Weasley!’’
’’Ah –’’ Hermione fumbled. His hair was long and tied back. Tom Riddle had never had long hair. Voldemort had no hair. ’’—Montgomery Goldsmith!’’
They shook hands and it felt as if she was unwittingly making an Unbreakable vow. She was not. But the fear lingered. He asked her if she was saving a seat for someone or if he could sit down next to her. ’’I enjoyed our conversation very much and hope to make a habit of it.’’
Hermione was beginning to worry that the more she spoke with Montgomery Goldsmith, the more he was flirting with her.
’’I’m married.’’
It was like someone knocked his teeth out. ’’Ah,’’ He fumbled next. ’’Apologies. I thought. Ah.’’
Hermione nodded.
He scooted away. Changed seats even.
It was a proper British response, really. Nobody did ’politely embarrassed’ how the brits did.
The seminar went swimmingly. By the end of it, Hermione felt bad enough to approach him and say that they could be friends. Later she would rue the patriarchal society she’d grown up in that sculpted her mind into not being able to let men be embarrassed and emotionally hurt by women. That they had to mend everything. That leaving things so awkwardly would be painful. But right now when he laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck and tried to avoid eye-contact with her – he seemed honestly confused and happy about the idea. ’’I’m very bad at people.’’
’’You don’t say?’’
’’They’re just...difficult to understand.’’ Montgomery Goldsmith whispered. ’’I don’t find them pleasant in any case. You’re pleasant because you simply say what you mean. You aren’t tiring.’’ Then he glanced down at her wedding ring. ’’Did you wear it last conference?’’
’’I did.’’
’’I must not have noticed.’’
Tom Riddle not noticing something so profoundly glaring as a woman’s wedding ring? Impossible.
A man who’d split his soul eight times? Not impossible.
Hermione was going to lose her goddamn mind that American Voldemort wanted to flirt with her. His accent was pretty cool, though, she wouldn’t say anything against it.
They did some silly exercises together and demolished the other teams because both of them took it too seriously.
Hermione got it first. She leaned into her conference buddy and whispered: ’’I think we may have overestimated how much we needed to take this seriously.’’
Montgomery Goldsmith nodded at this sagely. ’’I see your point.’’
Even the seminar holders were telling them, ever so gently, that this wasn’t a test of any kind. That they were here to learn, together, with everybody. ’’This isn’t SAT.’’
All of the Americans laughed.
’’It’s funny,’’ Montgomery explained her what SAT was, ’’because it’s a muggle test that carried over into the magical world.’’
’’Oh.’’ Hermione still wasn’t laughing.
But Montgomery Goldsmith seemed to be dying.
Hermione couldn’t wait to go home. ’’Do you live with anyone?’’
’’I have a cat. She’s a completely black cat that I found in a dumpster behind my house. I call her Salem. My ex was fond of birds. Had loads of them.’’ He appeared harrowed by the memory. ’’So many feathers everywhere.’’
’’I had a cat when I was young. It was orange and I called him Crookshanks.’’
’’Better than Beatrice in any case.’’
’’Beatrice?’’
’’Yeah, giving pets people names never ends well. They grow too...agitated and think they deserve rights.’’
’’Who did you name Beatrice?’’
’’I had a dream about a Beatrice once. She was a snake.’’ Montgomery rolled his eyes. ’’Pretty silly, right? She was a giant serpent that could devour world. And you look at that thing and you say: Hmm, Beatrice is the PERFECT name for you.’’
Hermione did not find any of this funny. Yet she laughed along.
Through talking Hermione realised that Montgomery had a thing for blonds. Hermione was very confused why he’d just blurt this out, but Hermione blurted out that she loved her husband, but that having children just wasn’t her thing. And that wasn’t something one blurted out at a conference, either. Though the drinks they served were legendary. So it was acceptable to live it up on a continent where no one knew her.
Hermione wound up meeting with Draco Malfoy. He had a son. Hermione hadn’t gotten around to having children, yet. Even though Ron kind of wanted them to begin a family. It seemed that every Weasley shaped person was on the task of family-building in order to cope with a Fred-shaped hole in their hearts. Children couldn’t fix that. Therapy could.
’’So, since you’re Undersecretary you’ve become privy to information.’’
Draco looked ten years older than they were. Yes, he was privy to information. ’’Get to the point, Mrs Weasley.’’
’’What relationship did he have with your father?’’
’’A wholly ’working’ relationship.’’
Hermione nodded. ’’He didn’t ever...’’ she paled, slightly, at the prospect, ’’he didn’t try and hurt you ever?’’
Draco just looked at her as if she asked the silliest question in existence. ’’I was a Death Eater, against my will. He has had ample opportunity to hurt me.’’
Hermione didn’t know how to phrase it exactly. She was fumbling. ’’He apparently has a thing for blonds.’’
It finally caught up with Draco. He sighed deeply. ’’It’s my grandfather.’’
’’Ah.’’ Hermione said that that made sense. ’’I’ve never met him.’’
’’Do you remember how Dumbledore used to dress?’’
’’Yes.’’
’’He had nothing on my grandfather’s style.’’
Montgomery Goldsmith dressed like he’d come out of something he called ’’Goodwill for the pants – oh, oh pardon me, I forget, trousers, so the British witch can understand me.’’
Hermione was shaking her head, disbelief in her eyes.
’’I got this T-shirt thrifting.’’ He twirled and showed the shabby clothes. Hermione laughed at the absurdity of seeing Voldemort wearing a muggle Nickleback T-shirt. It was summer. It was scorching. Another seminar had graced them.
’’How is your husband? Have you got any children yet? Wait, no, that was a rude question to ask and it’s none of my business.’’
’’It is none of your business.’’ Hermione nodded. And then she lightened up when he was clearly growing distressed. ’’Husband’s doing well. What about you, do you have any children?’’
’’I have yet to find the perfect blond to settle down with.’’
’’Why did you hit on me then?’’ Hermione found this man odd. He itched her brain. His intelligence enthralled her. ’’I am the farthest thing from a blonde.’’
’’Something about women with curly hair just mesmerises me, I suppose. Blond men and dark women! The only proper way to live, I tell you!’’ Montgomery Goldsmith placed a hand over Hermione’s shoulder and brought her closer to himself.
He believed himself to be only twenty years older than Hermione. Hermione believed herself to be incredibly lucky that this man wasn’t pursuing her in any relationship capacity.
If there happened to be a game or a portion of the seminar with questions and answers, Montgomery and Hermione excelled. People were beginning to dread them: the cursed conference companions.
Montgomery sent her postcards from the places he visited in the USA. Hermione sent him postcards from the rest of the world. Not any places that she was aware were tied to Voldemort, though when she’d gone to India and had sent him a postcard with a peacock, he hadn’t replied in a couple of weeks. More than was normal for him.
This was a tad worrying.
Draco Malfoy claimed that Hermione knowing half of these things was a national security breach.
’’But you won’t do anything?’’
’’I won’t.’’
’’Why?’’
’’You have a mean left-hook.’’ Draco unfurled his sleeve and showed the Mark. ’’And if anyone can get him to remove this, it’s you.’’
Hermione decided that this, too, was something worrying. She shook hands with him and this WAS an unbreakable vow.
Another conference, this one mainly regarding inter-cultural magic and more humane ways of stopping muggles from finding out about the magical world. Montgomery spotted her, but didn’t approach. Hermione was concerned. She approached him first and joked: ’’Is it because my hair’s straight that you’re avoiding me?’’ She’d tried something new out. She’d tried it mainly so Voldemort didn’t find her appealing. Had it worked?
Montgomery tried to crack the same sort of smile that he had mastered before, but it was slightly pinched at the ends. Hermione did not know this smile.
’’How was India?’’
’’Wonderful!’’ Hermione began her monologue, well aware that were this really Voldemort and not her friend Montgomery, he’d have cut her off and called her some sort of slur by now.
Except Voldemort was British. And a brit was always so damned polite, even to his worst enemies.
Hermione sat next to him. People spotted them together and groaned. Montgomery whispered, which for loud Florida Man Montgomery was odd: ’’Do you know what the peacocks represent in India?’’
’’Peacocks?’’ Hermione did not know, unfortunately, that Abraxas Malfoy had had 125 peafowls throughout his life and had made it his life’s greatest duty to educate everyone around him about these honourable birds.
’’Yes, they represent many things.’’ Montgomery Goldsmith smiled with his bleached teeth yet the smile was misplaced on his face, somehow. Hermione was growing paler the more she heard him speak, dipping ever so slightly into English, losing the loudness and the flare of his American accent. ’’Loyalty. Honour. Royalty. Wealth and good fortune. Some even say they are a symbol of immortality.’’ And then he unscrewed a water bottle they’d all been given at the conference and took a sip of it, pointedly not looking at Hermione.
’’Oh my fucking god.’’ She buried her head in her hands, her whole form shaking.
’’Yes.’’ Voldemort scrunched up his face in distaste. ’’I burned my entire closet with fiendfyre. My mind must have been incredibly projecting the loss I felt for when my ex with the birds died. Tell me, Hermione, dear conference buddy,’’ the American accent was back and it sounded so false, so unbelievably false it chilled Hermione to her core, ’’what is your plan?’’
’’Get out of this alive. Somehow get you to get rid of a dark mark on a blond.’’
Voldemort groaned at that. It was such a human emotion that it had Hermione cling onto hope that she, too, could get out of this alive. ’’I never wanted him to even have that stupid thing. His aunt kept nagging me into it.’’
’’Bella-’’
’’Silence.’’ Voldemort hissed and Hermione’s voice turned off. Such wandless magic was amazing. Her eyes widened at him in fear. ’’We cannot speak their names. They are tied to a persona that does not remember anything, remember? The MACUSA continues to watch me. I can feel their magic and their eyes on me. How I did not feel them is beyond me. Tell me, you said that your parents were obliviated?’’
Hermione nodded.
’’By someone?’’
’’Me. I did it to protect them.’’ Hermione explained, already well aware what Voldemort was going to ask her.
’’I trust you know Pig Latin, then.’’
’’They are very healthy and remember everything.’’ Hermione hotly said. ’’My magic is precise.’’
’’I know it is.’’ Voldemort said. ’’That is why I must ask you to help me.’’
’’Help you restore your own mind?’’
’’Well, yes. It is either this or I go to your home and kill your husband, kill that blasted moron of a prophecy child, and do my business with the youngest blond without you.’’
’’I am being extorted by my own conference buddy.’’
’’It’s business, kid.’’
’’Was that Brooklyn or New York, what kind of accent was that?’’
’’Fuck me if I fucking know. I woke up not being able to speak the damned thing after living a whole life with it. Just pop – right out of my brain. I’ve been watching films – oh, sorry, movies to get a hang of it because the MACUSA’s watching me.’’
’’You taking the piss right now?’’
’’No, I’m not and that’s the problem, innit? I need off this continent and I need a working brain for this to work.’’
’’What was your eighth?’’
’’I’ll tell you after you do your thing properly.’’
Hermione shook her head, dumbfounded: ’’Extortion. From my own buddy.’’
’’Give it a bleeding rest.’’
Hermione did her thing properly.
Draco Malfoy got his mark off.
Voldemort turned to Hermione and divulged secrets unknown: ’’Nothing. I made a horcrux out of thin air. Latched onto an atom. Call it Schrodinger’s horcrux, but this time around I, at least, am very well aware that I am NEVER dying. Now, I am off to India. I need to see a blond about some peacocks.’’
Draco Malfoy sputtered, then: ’’Wait a damned minute, he’s not DEAD?’’
’’Of course he’s not dead, he faked his own death!’’
’’When did this happen?’’ Hermione was struggling to catch up to what was happening.
’’Gods, conference buddy, you don’t need to know about everything that happens in my life.’’ Voldemort had made a vow not to step foot in the UK ever again for as long as he lived or for as long as the UK bore this name (immortal men did live long and he might get a second change 500 years down the line) and that he wouldn’t have anything to do with Harry Potter. Or his family.
Abraxas Malfoy had won a villa in a poker competition and had already filled it with 125 peafowls. When Voldemort found him, life was good.
’’An American! Oh how you’ve suffered, mon chou!’’
Voldemort had nodded, his head in Abraxas’ lap. ’’I have suffered. A lot, actually. Did you know I loved a park full of alligators?’’ A shudder ran through Abraxas. ’’It is called Gatorland.’’
’’You poor thing.’’ Abraxas clucked his tongue in sympathy and vowed to make Voldemort as comfortable as he needed to be until he forgot all about America.
’’Actually,’’ Voldemort said, ’’I’d like to not forget anything anymore, thank you.’’
Abraxas had laughed. ’’You incorrigible man. I missed your sense of humour.’’ He kissed Voldemort. ’’I missed you dreadfully.’’
’’I still can’t bloody believe I remembered you because I saw a peacock in a bloody postcard.’’
''I am not surprised at all, honestly.''
''Oh shut up.''