The sky was aflame with dawn when Hermione burst through the wooden kitchen door and out into the snowy morning air, the rolling moors before her blanketed with mist, the winter roses silvered with frost. Leaves crunched underfoot as her thin-soled shoes slapped against the stone. The old rusted hinges of the garden door shrieked; the wood banged against stone, and she panted as she ran, and then—
"Hermione!"
The powerful voice that she loved so well, strangled with anguish, echoed through the morning—but she did not turn back. She felt the thin cool fingers of truly powerful magic reach for her, and without looking back she cast them off from her. To her the magic's threat was no longer in its strength but in its familiarity.
"You cannot leave," he insisted, the echoes of his words scattering across the moors around her, as though the world were laughing at her now, a cruel audience to her pain.
She knew the risks, knew the cost—it was the greatest cost, perhaps, but it would not stop her. From the beginning she had known she would be prepared to pay whatever the price.
She could not turn back now—she would not lose her nerve.
Two Years Ago
"You must admit she's not like other girls. She hasn't the same path ahead of her."
Remus' soft voice was barely audible and Hermione had to strain to hear. Pressed up against the heavy wooden door, she eavesdropped on the discussion of what was to be done about her future. She had no betrothed waiting for her as was usual and proper for the few, rare young women graduating from Hogwarts.
"She will not be marrying, no," conceded Severus Snape evenly. "But who would wed her? There is no proof of her stock. She doesn't even come from a rich Muggle family, let alone a Wizarding one. Be that as it may, she is hardly my responsibility."
"It isn't a matter of responsibility, Severus. I've not seen talent like that in all of my years of teaching—"
"—All five of them, yes." Hermione could easily picture Snape's lip curling as he spoke.
"We cannot simply let such talent go to waste. It's— it's unethical," Remus insisted.
"Even you are not nearly so foolish as to bring this up without some sort of plan," said Snape now. She pictured him settling back, his black eyes betraying his inherent mix of superiority and insecurity. "So what is it, then? What is your plan?"
"…It's Riddle."
There was a choking, sputtering sound; something in between a callous, disgusted laugh and a noise of disbelief.
"I never knew you to have such a sense of humor, Lupin."
"He sent a letter some years ago—"
"I hardly venture to think that when he wrote, 'talented apprentice,' he really meant, 'drowned rat of a mudblood.'"
"The letter specifically stated that he would be open to receiving an apprentice of extraordinary talent. At the time, we had no one who would have fit, but Miss Granger is the brightest witch of her age—"
"Even if she is the so-called brightest witch of her age, she is a witch—a girl. Riddle is rather famously no one's fool—do you forget whose gold upholds Hogwarts, Lupin? We cannot send off a girl to one of our current benefactors. It would be poor business. And that does not even cover the matter of her blood status, which—"
"We'll bring it up to Dumbledore." The desperation of Remus' voice told Hermione that this was his trump card—his only one. She held her breath, afraid that the sound of her own breathing might obscure Snape's acquiescence—or his refusal.
"We will do no such thing," said Snape comfortably. She heard the scrape of a chair. "And now you have overstayed your welcome, Lupin. You may leave."
"We are equals, Severus. I merely brought this up to you as a matter of courtesy—but I see you will not be budged on the matter. I'll bring it up to Dumbledore myself."
Hermione scrambled away from the door on light feet and ducked into the darkness of the corridor, her heavy skirts rustling with the movement. Remus' tall but slouching figure appeared in silhouette as he turned to her, his young face prematurely lined with weariness. Hermione opened her mouth to speak but he jerked his head sharply and walked past her, placing a warm, sure hand at the small of her back and leading her away from Snape's rooms at top speed. Her skin prickled with awareness of his touch, and his breathing grew shallow with longing, but neither acknowledged it.
When at last they were a safe distance from Snape and alone in a dark, stray corridor, Remus took his hand from her back and turned to face her.
"We already knew we were swimming upstream," he finally said in a low voice, shaking his head.
"Who is this Riddle?" Hermione asked curiously. She pictured an old man in lush robes surrounded by endless stacks of gleaming gold Galleons, perhaps living in a large, sprawling home in London. Remus grimaced.
"If he weren't your only chance, I would have chosen someone else for you. Anyone else, really," he confided. He turned his dark sad eyes on Hermione now, and her stomach turned. She knew that look. "Are you quite sure about this, Miss Granger?" His voice softened. "You could be quite happy, marrying—"
"I could not." Her voice was too hard and she let out a huff, feeling guilty. She knew that Professor Lupin—or rather, Remus, though she dared not refer to him as such publicly, even here, alone—only wanted the best for her. Out of anyone at Hogwarts, he understood her best. He was trying to help her, not trying to keep her powerless, as others were.
"He's not a good man, Miss Granger." Remus' voice was barely audible. "The gold he gives us to keep Hogwarts running is little better than blood money. No—it is blood money."
It was all too easy to picture balancing scales in her mind—her morals versus her ambitions. It seemed her ambitions were heavier, were worth more—in her mind, the scale holding her ambitions thunked downward.
"It doesn't matter to me. Apprenticeships are only a few years—"
"—Only a few years of working under a known master of the Dark Arts—"
"—You suggested this!" Hermione exploded in a hiss. Remus sighed.
"Yes, but it comes with a cost, Miss Granger." His eyes searched hers. "I suggested this because I know and understand how much your magic means to you, but it comes with a cost. Is it one you're willing to pay?"
"I'll pay anything."
Remus walked towards Dumbledore's rooms with unusual purpose and confidence in his stride. He rounded the corner, and Severus Snape, standing before the entrance to Dumbledore's rooms, came into view.
"You will not—" Severus began icily, but before Remus could retaliate, the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's rooms moved to the side, revealing two tall figures and thus silencing both men.
Dumbledore was tall and ancient, with long silver hair hanging to his waist, garbed in robes almost the same silver as his hair.
Next to him stood a tall man—taller even than he—and far younger, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, with dark hair and dark, handsome eyes glimmering with cleverness set into a face so pale, angular, and ethereal that he might have been carved from marble and set to glow within a cathedral. His dark robes, though simple, were finely made and fashionably cut. He came from money, it seemed: everything from the gleam of health in his hair to the shine in his boots bespoke wealth. His smooth, pale lips twitched with something like amusement as he met Remus' eyes. Remus felt a jolt of inferiority.
"Two professors, out and about, not teaching classes? It seems the education has grown quite lax, Dumbledore." The man's voice was clear and cold as he quipped, arching his brows, his eyes never leaving Remus'. Snape was not capable of blushing, it seemed, but Remus felt his own face grow warm.
"I suppose it has," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with humor. "And these are two of my finest professors, too. This is Severus Snape, whom I believe you have met—" Dumbledore gestured to Snape, who gave a short, stiff motion something in between a nod and a bow, "and Remus Lupin."
Remus considered himself modern and as such stepped forward to shake the man's hand—but the man made no move to do any such thing. Instead, hands clasped behind his back, he looked down upon Remus with ill-concealed amusement and disdain. Remus let his hand fall, feeling all the more foolish.
"I hear you go by Voldemort these days, but to old professors like me you'll always be young Tom Riddle. Funny how stubborn we can be," Dumbledore mused. Remus' breath caught in his throat as he witnessed hatred bloom in the man's eyes before it was hastily buried. Riddle's pale lips curved into a smirk.
"Perhaps it's your mind going, old man," said Riddle smoothly. "Not what it used to be, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," conceded Dumbledore lightly, as though Riddle hadn't just broadly insulted one of the most powerful wizards in the world. "I did just have a birthday, you know."
"You get one every year," quipped Riddle, his tone not quite as light as Dumbledore's. His expression hardened. "Where is this apprentice? I've not got all day."
"Time is money, so they say," agreed Dumbledore, nodding for them to walk with him. Riddle scoffed.
"Money is meaningless, old man. I thought you at least knew that."
For once united in their abject horror, Remus and Severus walked behind the two men and glanced between each other.
So this was the infamous Lord Riddle.
"Perhaps to you it is, Tom, but to us, money is quite meaningful."
"Are you asking for more funds? Do so directly; your obtuseness bores me. Not that I'll give it to you. I've taken on some new projects that direct my money elsewhere—and if this apprentice truly is worthwhile, I'll have to fund him as well."
Once again Severus and Remus glanced at each other, their minds each snagging on a particular word. Him?
So, Dumbledore hadn't told Riddle yet.
Remus wished, quite powerfully, in that moment for telepathy.
He would have loved to be able to ask Miss Granger to at least, for once, comb her wild hair.
They approached Gryffindor Tower, though Professor McGonagall approached them now, heading them off. She met Riddle's gaze coolly. Remus supposed these two knew each other somehow, but how McGonagall, a practical witch from modest—at best—circumstances could know this man, he could not fathom.
"Apologies, Professor Dumbledore, but I've just checked the dormitories—the apprentice is out on a venture to Hogsmeade to purchase supplies for the apprenticeship."
Remus felt Snape glance meaningfully at him, and his own gaze bored into Dumbledore's back. Well-played, Dumbledore.
"Ah, thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore said graciously, and he turned to Riddle now. "Unfortunately, it seems you'll have to wait and have your new apprentice delivered to you."
Riddle hardly looked fooled. He arched his brows and looked at Snape and Remus.
"Well, clearly old Dumbledore's got something to hide," he surmised, looking heavily at them both. Even Snape looked uncomfortable under the man's piercing dark gaze. "But I suppose I'll find out eventually. I can hardly wait—if you're lucky, old man, the suspense just might kill me."
Hermione was walking along the desolate grounds, hunting for a particular plant that only unfurled its remarkable gold leaves in twilight, when she heard leaves and grass crunching underfoot behind her. She looked up and saw Remus striding towards her, and she felt a quiver of anticipation in her belly, not solely borne of fear of the result of his discussion with Dumbledore.
"Well, Dumbledore came up with a plan at the very last minute," he said by way of greeting, and he exhaled as he reached her, his breath clouding in the air. The walk from the castle to here had breathed some life into his pale, drawn features, and for a moment he actually looked his own age. The loveliness of his soul was more apparent now, in the depth of his intelligent brown eyes and the gentleness of his brow. She sometimes wildly thought if she did not kiss him, she might simply die. No, that is foolish, she told herself in such moments, "Not guaranteed to work, but it'll at least get you to Riddle's door, which is further than you would have made it if he knew…"
"…That I'm an orphan girl?" Hermione prompted hastily, stepping forward. Remus' brow furrowed and he looked at her with such misery and sympathy that it left her breathless.
"That you're a Muggle-born orphan girl, Hermione."
His words hardly surprised her. She watched Remus' mouth twist into a wry smile. "Sorry, that was inappropriate," he added softly, looking down. It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the fact that he had called her by her first name.
"There's no one to hear," she muttered, gesturing to the sprawling empty fog-laden grounds surrounding them. "So what will happen when he learns the truth?"
"I haven't any idea," he confessed, raking a hand through his light hair and looking past her shoulder at the lake. "It will not be good, I can assure you that. Your only hope is to impress him immediately. He's no fool—if he can see your abilities, he will forget everything else, I guarantee you that much. Your brilliance will be so much more interesting to him than your blood status, though that is certainly something he's known to prize. It will be interesting to see what matters to him more…"
"I'll impress him," she resolved. "When do I leave?"
Remus looked away. Her gaze fell upon his jawline, the jawline she had recently come to love.
"Tomorrow," he said hoarsely.
An hour later, Hermione, with her hair brushed and pulled back in a bun, still wearing her mud-soaked dress, and running late, hastened along to the Great Hall.
The few students that were dining this late sat at the long tables designated for the students; Dumbledore, Snape, Remus sat at the high table, bathed in candlelight, the castle's best silver gleaming even in the meager light. Hermione prepared to take her usual seat at one of the tables, but Dumbledore summoned her to them.
Remus felt Snape trod on his foot.
"She looks like a pauper," the black-haired man hissed.
"She is a pauper."
"Riddle took his leave—urgent business called him back to Selwyn Hall, his estate," explained Snape as Hermione arrived at the high table. Flushed and out of breath, she glanced at Remus, then at Dumbledore. He was looking like he was trying very hard to keep something amusing to himself. "And this meant he left without a key piece of information," added Snape in a strained voice, scowling at Dumbledore, who was innocently tapping his fingers together.
"He's actually taking me on as an apprentice?" Hermione knew intuitively to play dumb—there was assuredly some sort of impropriety to Remus having already confronted her about this matter privately.
And then…there had been something even more improper about the look in his eyes and the break of his voice when he'd said, tomorrow. Her heart swelled and she took her seat mechanically, feeling her eyes burn. The walk back to the castle had been silent, the misty air thick with all of the things they could not say.
"He thinks you are a man, so, yes, he is—for now. And Professor Dumbledore here has as of yet not corrected him," said Snape, barely keeping his rage tamped down as his nostrils flared, "and our school's greatest benefactor will most likely be quite displeased when a mudblood girl shows up on his doorstep!"
"Severus," said Remus sharply. Unfortunately, the idea of the word 'mudblood' as offensive was a far more modern notion that had only breached the castle walls with Dumbledore and Remus—the rest of the school was stuck in a different time, perhaps even as far back as when halfbloods and mudbloods were considered subhuman, when kings burned witches at the stake. Hermione instinctively recoiled at the injustice of it but she said nothing; she knew it would be foolish to speak now; foolishness that could cost her the only chance she had at actually learning any real magic. She held her tongue, waiting for the unpredictable next move of Dumbledore. His eyes twinkled merrily.
"You must be hungry, Miss Granger—I see you spent all day outside," he observed, nodding to her muddy skirts. Hermione took her seat at the high table, in the place this Lord Riddle would have sat.
"You depart tomorrow at dawn. We have arranged for a carriage," said Snape tightly, apparently too angry to eat.
Hermione's plate filled with rich food and her goblet filled with pumpkin juice. She longed to scurry away to the library, for she had so many questions… Selwyn Hall... The name was an old Wizarding name, which meant that this Riddle was of thoroughly Pureblood stock...though his name was not Selwyn, interestingly. Though her determination was powerful, her stomach did flip at the idea of appearing at the estate, not nearly what Riddle was expecting... She could withstand confrontations when necessary but that did not mean she relished them…
"He demanded only the most promising, most brilliant student." Remus' voice lilted over the sound of silverware clinking as they ate in otherwise silence. "We unilaterally agreed it to be you."
Hermione said nothing; she ate to hide how she beamed. And then—her heart swelled and broke in one moment—tomorrow…
"And yet—" Snape began, but faltered.
"Riddle may surprise you yet, Severus," said Dumbledore gently. He winked at Hermione. She heard Snape scoff.
"I know him quite well, Dumbledore—better than you. He is not a man who appreciates dishonesty or trickery from those with whom he associates, and we are dependent upon his gold."
"I have told no lies," said Dumbledore innocently. Snape snorted into his potatoes.
"I do not see how you can be so calm about this." He glanced at Hermione with disgust.
"How do you know him, Professor?" Hermione piped up, eager to end the discussion. It was doing nothing for her courage, which flickered like a dying candle. Snape almost seemed more surprised than angry that she had dared to speak.
"Professor Snape assisted him in a number of his discoveries...both publishable and un-publishable," added Remus pointedly. Snape was indifferent to Remus' implied accusations.
"We attended Hogwarts at the same time, and continued to interact professionally prior to my accepting a teaching position here," dismissed Snape. "Eat your food and ask no more insolent questions."
"Severus—" chided Remus ineffectually. Hermione was hungry enough to do as told... for now. Snape was hardly a man to be pushed and when pushed he usually only provided more sourness anyway. She ate in silence and thought of Riddle and Selwyn Hall. She pictured a grand, old-fashioned estate, everything gilded, though she was certain that Selwyn was a Slytherin family name, in which case everything would likely be draped in green velvet and edged in silver. Perhaps it was situated in London, nestled in Hyde Park—or perhaps on the outskirts...
And if Snape and Riddle had attended school together, that made him far younger than she had anticipated—for although Snape looked much older, rumors and gossip placed him at about thirty-five to forty.
Something about that notion sent a jolt of nervousness through her belly. The image of a corpulent old man, the buttons of his robes straining and sweat beading at his receding hairline with the effort of living, was cracked. Something about that seemed easier to her than a younger man.
She was dismissed after she had eaten a sufficient portion of her meal. Instead of returning to her own room, however, she went to one of the classrooms, where she attempted to use magic to fashion new dresses for herself. In the dungeon classroom, she stood in her underclothes and worked from a book on sewing spells.
Hermione stared at her reflection in the mirror, a plain girl garbed in dresses each more plain than the one before it, with high collars, minimal details, and full, modest skirts, all in black, grey, and muted, somber blues. In the mirror she saw Professor McGonagall—her idol—step into the room, also plainly dressed. Professor McGonagall was the only female professor at Hogwarts and had never married. In her, Hermione supposed—hoped—she was seeing her future self.
"Professor Lupin said you would be leaving in the morning," she said by way of greeting, clearing her throat. She was not a sentimental woman. "I have some books you will be needing."
"Oh, Professor," sighed Hermione, turning to face the woman and hearing pins and needles drop on the flagstone floor. She felt her eyes burning with tears.
"No need to grow emotional, Miss Granger," quipped McGonagall. "Riddle will be an excellent tutor. His skillset is beyond well-rounded."
There was a tone in her voice that meant something. Hermione peered at her curiously.
"So he does dabble in the Dark Arts," she confirmed. McGonagall arched her brows and snorted.
"That is not the biggest challenge that you face, Miss Granger," she said plainly. Hermione stepped down from the stool and hugged the fabric to her form, embarrassed to be in such a state around someone she held in such high regard.
McGonagall stared at her, then looked away, shaking her head. She set the books down on a low stool and began sorting through them. "This text on Transfiguration is somewhat outdated, but—"
"What is my biggest challenge?" She was loath to interrupt McGonagall but she couldn't bear her curiosity any longer. McGonagall straightened, adjusting her spectacles. She cast a few wards about the room.
When she looked back at Hermione, it was with such a brutal hardness that Hermione braced herself to hear something that she would not like.
"Miss Granger, there is a very good reason that Hogwarts typically avoids mixed-sex apprenticeships."
Hermione balked.
"That will hardly be an issue for me—"
"For you, of course, it will not be a matter at all. You are a sensible person and I trust your judgment. …But men are not so strong-willed or sensible as women." The slanderous phrase was magically contained in the walls but it was no less shocking, however much Hermione agreed. "There may come a point where you will be forced to make some difficult decisions about your education and how to proceed—or whether to proceed at all."
The two women gazed at each other.
"You're not suggesting—"
"Of course not," she snapped. "You must respect yourself above all else, never forget that. But it comes at a cost."
She thought of Remus' words from before. She thought of her reply.
I'll pay anything.
It was no less true now than it had been hours before. McGonagall looked away now, straightening her spectacles. Hermione blinked rapidly.
"I trust myself to protect myself and respect myself," she said now. "But I cannot pass on such a chance just because there might potentially be some sort of romantic matter," she sputtered, her face reddening.
"I would hardly call the matter romantic," McGonagall said dryly.
"Is it true that Riddle practices the Dark Arts?" Hermione pressed. McGonagall pondered for a moment.
"There have been rumors," she admitted now, straightforward as ever. "But there have also been such rumors about Professor Snape, yet Professor Dumbledore insists he trusts him with his life."
"Have you ever met Lord Riddle?"
"I saw him, once, at a ball nearly twenty years ago," said McGonagall, narrowing her eyes as she recalled the event. "He was a very young man, then. Perhaps no more than fifteen. At the time he was quite unforgettable for many reasons, but it's been such a long time—I cannot know what sort of man he is now."
They stood in silence, each woman attempting to suppress her emotions.
"You have been the person upon whom I model myself," Hermione said now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You have been my idol and you will always be."
McGonagall retrieved a tartan handkerchief from thin air and dabbed her eyes, turning away from her.
"Really, Miss Granger, you're hardly traveling abroad. There's no need to be so sentimental," she reproved, her slim back straight, though Hermione knew the older woman did not mean it.
After some time, McGonagall took her leave, and Hermione faintly heard the woman let out a single sob as she escaped into the corridor.
With tears streaming down her own face, Hermione mechanically went through the motions of sewing a garment with magic, watching as she was transformed from an unruly but free girl to a modest and severe woman before her own eyes.