Author's Note: A chapter to celebrate my promotion at work! Woohoo! Man, for some reason this one was a tough one to get right, and I hope it isn't too disappointing. A special thanks to any and all reviewers: Dragul, DailyMirror, 7thSense, Mama123, JuliaLestrange, and Lady Akane Jane. Thanks as well to anyone who has added this to their favorites and alerts.

CHAPTER FOUR: ENIGMA

'The Dark Lord is enigmatic in nature, I have come to realize. He looks to recruit followers with great magical ability and knowledge so that they may form a suitable army, but is distrustful and suspicious when his followers demonstrate too much. If it weren't for the fact that he prides himself in being the most powerful wizard to exist, I would almost suspect that he was frightened that someone too strong may dethrone him. However, that is not the case and I believe that perhaps he is concerned that the naturally strong and naturally powerful will not be easily swayed by his promises. They are unlike the weak and the unsure he recruits and he knows that he has little else to tie them to him than his charisma and their desire to see a world where wizards come out on top...'

-from the journal of Severus Snape, June of 1995

It was strange, Hermione decided, as she sat at the Slytherin table for lunch the next day. Several spaces up from her and across the table, surrounded by whom she recognized to be members of the Nott, Mulciber and Dolohov families, was Tom Riddle. She tried not to watch him, not wanting to look like one of the many girls in Hogwarts who couldn't seem to keep their hormones in check around the handsome dark wizard. So instead she would settle with quick, fleeting gazes over her goblet of pumpkin juice, once again coming to the conclusion that this entire situation was very surreal.

Something about Lord Voldemort engaging in activities as sustaining and human as eating had her head reeling, and she wanted to slap herself in the hopes that her fascination with it would cease. She had known that an effect of having so many horcruxes made someone less human, and therefore less susceptible to human needs such as hunger and lust. But in this time, Riddle only had one horcrux, and still very much required to maintain his life functions, no matter how banal they may be.

Pushing her plate away, she pulled out her schedule for the semester, pretending to look it over as she continued her study. He preferred to eat heartier foods, she observed, rich and decadent meat, mashed potatoes and hard rolls filling his plate. At breakfast, he had had slices of sausage and eggs over toast, and with a mild pang in her chest she realized it was a result of the rationing his orphanage had surely endured during the second world war. While the wizarding world seemed to be only mildly aware of what was occurring above ground, too distracted by their own war, she knew from muggle studies that all over Europe and the United States, food and common supplies were being severely restricted. Meat, cheese and bread were hard to come by, and it seemed Riddle wanted to reap the benefits of Hogwarts unlimited food supply while he could.

He was a very polite eater, taking small bites and chewing slowly, refusing to speak while he did so. She could even see him cringe slightly when one of his housemates did not meet his level of manners, laughing loudly and exposing his mouthful of half masticated food to the table. When he was done eating, he pushed his plate aside and reached for a bowl of chocolate mousse.

'Strange,' she thought again, turning to her schedule and this time offering it her complete attention. With an exasperated sigh, she laid her forehead in her hands. Advanced Potions was next, with none other than a younger Horace Slughorn. She rubbed her temples. The young witch wasn't certain she had the patience for him and his incessant questions today, knowing full well that bearing the last name of Dumbledore would surely result in several. 'At least,' she thought bitterly.

Her thoughts were, quite literally, interrupted when she felt the familiar sensation of someone nudging into her head. Her head shot upwards violently, and she was making direct eye contact with Tom Riddle.

His dark blue eyes met hers in a challenging gaze, fixed piercingly in an attempt to break through the walls she had firmly in place. She wasn't surprised that he would use legilimancy on her, and had of course prepared herself for it, but she hadn't expected him to try so soon. 'Perhaps my freak out yesterday worked in my favor,' she thought wryly, continuing to maintain eye contact with the prefect. Raising a brow as if to say, 'Is that all you've got?' she smirked at a quick look of irritation that flashed across his face.

The prodding feeling in her head grew more incessant, yet her walls stood firm. Not able to stop herself from relishing in triumph, she pulled out her Advanced Potions book, reading the first chapter as the wizard tried to pry into her thoughts.

They went on like that for several minutes, and she could actually feel the murderous look being sent her way. Her eyebrows twinged as his attempts became more forceful, trying to resist the impulse to lay her head down as the ache began to grow. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction, knowing that she couldn't show any signs of weakness if she wanted him to become interested in recruiting her. Still, the dull throb became a rather aggressive stab, and she found herself wishing he would let up.

After what felt like an eternity, he did, slowly retreating from her mind and she looked up in time to see him giving her an unreadable face. His sculpted brows were raised, and his lips pursed in a tight line. He was standing now, getting ready to leave, and with a shocked yelped she realized that lunch was over, the food in front of her disappearing in one quick movement.

Pulling herself up hurriedly, she grabbed her bag off the bench beside her and slung it on her shoulder. Still feeling Riddle's eyes on her and tightening her book to her chest, she left the Great Hall, exhaling a deep breath and making a mental note to stop by the Hospital Wing for a headache tonic.

-xXx-

Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes when she walked into the Potion's classroom. A large, ostentatiously gold cauldron sat in the center above the rows of desks, a pleasant smell wafting to her where it stood. The potion bubbled calmly within, and from the distinct Mother-of-Pearl sheen, she knew that- just as he had in her sixth year- Slughorn planned on introducing the class to Amortentia.

'Some things never change,' she thought with a smile, almost feeling relieved with the nostalgia. If she closed her eyes and let her mind wander, she could pretend that Harry and Ron were beside her, their faces annoyed at having been forced into the class. She giggled at the memory, the familiar ache in her chest tightening with grief. As she sat down, she straightened the thick wool skirt that was customary for girls in this time, and closed her eyes. That's why she was doing this, she reminded herself. Nothing could bring back her Ron and Harry, or remove the pain that would linger long within her heart at their death. But as time went on and Voldemort came to be, hopefully her manipulations would save their lives before they were truly in danger, as well as countless others. It made her head ache, to think about the mechanisms of time travel and of the new world that she thought might already be in creation, so she laid the thoughts to rest for another time.

The sound of a chair scraping against the stone floor jarred her, and she turned to face Tom once more. He was smiling politely, yet his eyes were squinted in an uncomfortable manner. "Hello, Hermione. Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked, gesturing to the seat that he had already pulled out for himself.

She shook her head. "Not at all, Tom."

She had barely finished answering when he sat down, placing his own copy of Advanced Potion Making in front of him and she wondered if he, like Snape, had penciled in minor changes to enhance the efficacy of his potions; had dangerous dark spells of his own making written in the margins.

"Are you feeling any better from yesterday?" he asked, drawing her eyes away from the book.

"Oh yes, thank you," she answered and then, turning her head to the side as she examined his still squinted eyes, asked, "Are you feeling alright? You're not suffering from a migraine, are you?"

'If looks could kill, I would be dead,' she thought ruefully, the young Dark Lord scoffing in indignation as he narrowed his eyes at her, this time in anger instead of pain. She almost grinned smugly in response, the child in her that never really had a chance to be a child wanting to indulge in a moment of immature superiority. But the desire flitted away just like that, the absurdity of the situation weighing in on her once more. Nearly nine months ago, she had watched her friends die at his hands, and now she sat beside him, baiting the evil underneath the surface with taunts. Feeling contrite, she turned her attention to the head of the classroom, her hands folding in her lap as she tried to recall the journal entries she had read last night and earlier this morning.

Snape had stood by the monster's side, tortured and torturing as it was required, pushing aside his humanity so that he could assist the Order and hopefully lead to the Dark Lord's undoing. She had it easy compared to him; Tom Riddle had not grown into the behemoth he would become and therefore relied on his charisma, not his large repertoire of dark spells, to gain a following.

If Snape could summon the courage to move past his moral obligations in favor of a true to form devil, she could do the same for the fallen angel.

"Quite impressive," Tom spoke, not looking to her as he opened his schoolbag and produced a quill and ink pot alongside his parchment. "Your occlumency, I mean." His nostrils were flared, and she imagined that praising someone for their ability was not something he was used to or enjoyed.

"I could say the same for your legilimancy."

He grinned lazily, like a cat who managed to corner its prey and decided to prolong the inevitable. Without addressing her compliment, he asked, "Did your cousin tell you to study it?"

For what she imagined would be the first and only time she wouldn't have to lie to him, she said, "Yes, in fact. I learned from a former tutor I had, at his request." He needn't know of course that Dumbledore wasn't her cousin, and that even if he was, it had been a Dumbledore from over six decades into the future that had made that request. Fickle thing, the truth can be.

Her answer seemed to cause even more annoyance, and she remembered one of the several instructions she had been given to endear herself to him. 'Albus Dumbledore is your second cousin, but you do not quite see eye to eye with him. Riddle admires Dumbledore's powers and knowledge, but despises his perceptiveness and sympathy. Use this information to your advantage...'

With a shrug that she hoped look casual, she added, "He advised for me to study it, and to be ever vigilante with my mind. He can be a bit...well, batty, I admit, but I suppose he does have some merit." Blushing, as though she felt embarrassed at having been caught speaking ill of a family member, she whispered, "But don't tell anyone I said that."

He looked at her intently before smirking. "Your secret is safe with me."

Feigning a sigh of relief, she sat back in her chair as Slughorn emerged from his office, just as stout and jovial as she recalled from her own time, though with sandy blond hair and and a smooth, young face.

"Welcome, welcome, students!" he called, extending his arms outward in emphasis of his statement, his rich jade robes swooshing with the movement. "Let me be the first to congratulate you all on your success with the OWLs, very well done indeed. But from here, we will only continue to study and create more advanced potions, so there will be no slacking in this classroom." He paused, his beady eyes glistening as he looked at the total of eleven students before him. His eyes settled firmly on Hermione, and she resisted the impulse to swear aloud.

"Ah yes, our newest addition to Slytherin House," he said, chuckling as he moved toward her. "Miss Hermione Dumbledore." He sounded impressed, and she could already predict the invitation she would receive for the next Slug Club meeting. "Tell me, Miss Dumbledore, what do you believe this potion before you is?"

She didn't even look to study it, the aroma too enchanting to ignore. "Amortentia, sir. A powerful love potion. Or rather, an infatuation or obsession potion, as no spell or elixir has yet been created that could imitate actual love. The smell of it is different to everyone, and tends to mimic the smells of what you find most attractive," she answered, and at his expectant look, finished, "For me, it smells like freshly cut grass, parchment, toothpaste and.." she frowned, her nose crinkling as she found a new scent she couldn't quite identify, something heady, that reminded her of the fall when the leaves fell from the trees and the air turned frigid. "Something I can't really identify." It had smelt differently, during her sixth year in her own time line, and she was completely mystified as to its origin. When had it changed?

"Very good! Ten points to Slytherin!" Looking pleased with himself, Slughorn then turned to Riddle, who had stiffened and gone stoic at the mention of the love potion. "Ah, I see our best student has taken Miss Dumbledore under his wing- very good, my boy! Perhaps, you could tell us what you interpret the smell as?"

She saw the muscle in his jaw clench, yet he answered with no otherwise hint of anger. "I suppose I smell books, pumpkin juice and...lavender." Slughorn said something in response, turning then as he moved around the room and continued asking his questions, but Hermione didn't hear it, too focused on Tom as the young man kept his gaze forward, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the cauldron of the seductive smelling potion.

He was lying, she knew. During both breakfast and lunch, she wad watched as he opted for either water or apple cider to drink, avoiding the bowl of pumpkin juice in favor of others. And lavender was such a generic, feminine smell that it took all she had to not scoff when he said it. He had given the first answer that came to mind, not wanting to answer truthfully or even at all.

Following his line of sight, she too stared at the luxuriant steam that rose upwards and spiraled towards the ceiling. She remembered what Dumbledore from her time had shown her in his pensieve, the tragic story of Merope Gaunt and the conception of the most evil wizard in the wizarding world- all due to a love potion. She had almost felt bad for Riddle, as she stood unnoticed on the cold streets outside Wool's Orphanage, watching his mother die. It wasn't a wonder that he was incapable of feeling or appreciating love, considering his life. Conceived in false love, born into death, and raised alone. It was like the plot of some awful Greek play, the Gods of Olympus coming together to punish a mortal man for sins he had yet to commit. But it wasn't a play, and her sympathy would do no good.

Chancing a look back to Riddle, she saw that his eyes remained focused forward. And as Slughorn returned to the front of the class to begin instructions, she found herself wondering what on earth he had truly smelled from the potion that was responsible for his birth. Or if he had smelled anything at all.

-xXx-

A week had gone by, and she thought she was acclimating quite well to the new environment. She and Riddle hadn't spoken formally since their Potion's class with the Amortentia, despite having a very similar schedule at Dumbledore's prompting. However, she continued to observe him and write down about it daily in her journals, feeling slightly like a stalker or a jilted lover. She was thankful for the privacy wards on it, preventing anyone but her from seeing its true contents.

Over the week, she had noticed little quirks about him, defining characteristics unique to only him- and the idea of Voldemort once possessing them was something that had taken some getting used to. She knew he disliked pumpkin juice, but had a particular affinity for chocolate- another ration of the war. He disliked being seen in any state of undress, so while their housemates would freely walk around in only their slacks and white button down during free periods, he would only ever remove the thick robe, if anything at all. And to her disgust, he would twist the ring around his finger whenever he was in thought, a worry stone of sorts. Her observations would normally end for the moment if she caught sight of him doing that.

Of course, she was well aware that he was just as watchful of her, and would from time to time try to prod into her mind once more, only to be denied access. It became a sort of game to them, him trying to catch her in a moment when her guard would be down- when she read, or was starting to fall asleep by the fireplace in the common room, an essay in front of her- and she would keep reinforcing her wall, impeding all his attempts to break through. He didn't seem entirely angry though, and she suspected he in fact welcomed the challenge, knowing that she had in fact succeeded in piquing his interests. And when she had ventured into the Hospital Wing one afternoon, requesting a headache tonic for the third time that week, she had seen him already there, Madam Malone clucking her tongue as she asked, "What on earth are you two getting up to that I've gone through so much of this particular draught?" He smirked knowingly at Hermione as he left, but not before trying to sharply delve into her mind, causing her to wince and clutch her head as the mediwitch returned from her supply room.

The young witch sighed as she stood in the lavatory attached to the girls' dormitories, preparing herself for another day of classes that were all too easy for her- having already completed them, of course. Standing in front of the floor length mirror, she examined herself in careful scrutiny. She had begun to gain some weight since coming here, something that was greatly necessary, as her eating habits had been scattered since going horcrux hunting in her seventh year. She was still not used to her short hair, which had grown rather considerably to the nape of her neck and at least seemed to respond better to straightening charms at its new length.

Grabbing hold of the wand she had set aside as she shirked out of her pajamas, she held out her left arm and pointed the tip to the ugly red letters carved into the soft, pale flesh of her forearm: mudblood. Muttering the incantation Dumbledore had shown her, the writing began to fade, the raised and inflamed skin soothing to match her natural creamy tone and softening down from the swollen state until the scar was invisible. Not bothering to conceal her other scars, she placed the wand back down and began to slip into the heavy uniform, having slight difficulty as her hands trembled with the memory of being tortured by Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor.

It was the only spell that could conceal the horrid mark, if only temporarily, and she made it a habit to use it daily, just in case, knowing that if Riddle were to ever see it he would immediately forget any notion to recruit her.

Once she was fully dressed, she made her way down to the Common Room, where several students sat, chatting casually with their friends as they scrambled to finish their homework, some of them not even dressed out of their sleeping gowns.

"Ah, Hermione," a familiar voice called to her, and she looked to her right to see Riddle rising from a table he sat at, the other teenage boys sitting with him watching her with matching smirks. She felt her stomach flip in unease at the site, knowing that these young men were the beginnings of the Death Eaters, and wondering what on earth they had in mind that caused such sinister expressions.

"Have I introduced you to my friends yet?" he asked extending out his arm to her.

She hesitated only slightly before slipping her arm through, walking back with him to the table. "No, I don't believe so."

"How dreadfully rude of me, then, Hermione. Let me introduce you." Gesturing around the table to each man in turn, he introduced them. "Antonin Dolohov, Randolf Nott, Garreth Rosier, and Milton Mulciber." As he said their names, each of them reached out for her hand, pulling it to their lips and placing gentle kisses on her knuckles, just as Riddle had done.

After all the introductions were made, he pulled an empty seat out for her, gesturing to it as he said, "Please, join us for a moment."

She bit her lip as she sat down, startling slightly as Riddle pushed her chair in for her before returning to his own seat. She smiled in discomfort as the five men fixed her with a leveled gaze, anxiously pulling on the hem of her skirt. "I hope you're enjoying Hogwarts. Tell me, Hermione, how did your first week go?" Tom asked, his voice silky and she was in awe at his acting abilities. He seemed truly concerned, truly interested to hear about her time here.

"No complaints," she answered.

"I heard Professor Slughorn invite you to his little Slug Club party next weekend. It would seem you've at least made an impression."

She rolled her shoulder forward, smirking. "Only because of my lineage, I believe. Being a Dumbledore and all." She waved her hand in the air dismissively as she spoke.

Tom opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a sharp, raucous laugh. Turning his attention over to Mulciber, he raised his brow in a threatening manner, giving him a chance to save face. However, the Slytherin boy did not get the hint and proceeded to lean in towards Hermione, his elbows pushing him off the table.

"Dumbledore's your cousin, right?" When she nodded, he began to laugh some more. "Bloody blarmy, that one is. Quite the muggle lover too, though father says that that wasn't always the case for the Dumbledore name, as I'm sure you know." He winked crudely at her now, and she felt her face flush as she fought the impulse to defend the Transfiguration teacher. She didn't get a chance to, however, as the regal-faced boy continued. "Though Riddle here says you've just about matched his scores in your classes, and that he can't use legilimancy worth a lick on you. Let's hope you prove to be less of a waste of space than your cousin, now."

Affronted, her mouth fell open in a large gape, unsure of how to proceed and struggling not to allow her Gryffindor colors to show through her layers of silver and green. But before she could, Tom was speaking, his voice lower and more intimidating than she had ever heard it, and she felt the hair on her arms stand on end in response.

"Apologize."

A simple command, spoken firmly and resonating around the room. And she was aware of the blanket of silence that fell over them as he said it, his voice seeming to magnify above all others. Looking around nervously, she saw that several younger students were watching in rapt interest, while the older ones seemed to be suddenly busy reading through their essays. She returned her attention to the group of men when Mulciber began to speak.

"What for? All I did was compliment her and-" he squeaked, drawing his body straighter in the chair as he stared straight ahead, clenching his jaw and swallowing hard enough for Hermione to see the Adam's apple in his neck bob.

"No," Tom said, speaking slow and enunciating clearly, "You insulted her cousin. That is not a praise, and it is, in fact, rude and improper to speak ill of someone's family in their presence. Now, apologize to Hermione."

She wanted to step in, to stop the pervading tension and the ferociousness laced within Tom's words. But she couldn't, her body had become frozen and she could not will herself to move. Her eyes flitted back and forth between the two, her heart beat pounding hard enough that she wondered if the others could hear the deafening thump-thump.

Wincing, Mulciber turned to her, and her eyes looked up to the sheen of sweat forming on his brow. "S-sorry, Hermione."

"It's alright," was all she could say, her voice a whisper.

"No, it isn't," Tom said, and then, looking down his nose at Mulciber, "But it will do."

She swallowed, suddenly aware of the quiet in the Common Room but not daring to look around her. She tried to make eye contact with the other men- Nott, Rosier, and even Dolohov- but the three of them sat with there hands clasped in their lap, eyes looking intently down at the dark surface of the table. She looked over to Riddle, but his glare still boring holes into Mulciber, the sweat now glistening on his nose and chin and the tops of his cheeks.

She knew she shouldn't say anything, that she should sit and wait until Riddle decided it was alright to move on with the conversation. But she squirmed in her seat, looking around at everything and nothing, as she waited and waited for the cue. The long scar that ran from between her breasts and to her hip- left behind from Dolohov during the Department of Mysteries battle- began to itch and she pushed her shoulders out and in, hoping the movement would relieve the discomfort.

After several minutes had passed, her unease had grown unbearable, and she made to stand, her legs shaking. "I-I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I need to run to breakfast so I can head to the library early-"

Her speaking seemed to remind Riddle of her presence, and he turned to her, his eyes immediately softer and warmer than they had been moments before. "Sorry to keep you, and I apologize for my friend here. He shouldn't have said those things, and I hope we didn't make you uncomfortable." Mulciber whimpered as he shut his eyes tight.

"Er...you didn't," she said, with an unsure shake of her head.

She was ready to leave, her bags slung over her shoulder, as he said, "The first meeting for the Dueling Club is tonight, and we were wondering if you would like to accompany us. Harmless fun, really, but it always helps to get extra defense practice in."

She knitted her brows, eyeing him with a thoughtful gaze that he returned. He wanted to see her fight, wanting to appraise her abilities. Shuffling her feet back and forth, she said, "I suppose I could. When is it?"

"4 o clock, and it runs until dinner. I'll meet you outside of Adalbert's classroom and escort you there."

She wanted to say that it wasn't necessary, that she would find her own way there, but something about the clipped tone in his voice said it wasn't something to be negotiated on. And this certainly was not a time to be petulant. She would follow this order, hoping that doing so brought her closer to him. "That sounds lovely."

He smiled. "I'll see you later, Hermione."

She began to walk off, not feeling steady upon her shaking legs as they tried to carry her to the entrance. She took one final look back over her shoulder, and could just barely see what looked like Tom Riddle holding his wand to Mulciber's abdomen, the sharp tip indenting hard enough for her to see the impression of his multiple layers. Riddle's wand hand shook, and sheknew he was producing magic through it, the action hidden below the surface of the table.

-xXx-

The Room of Requirements was currently decorated in dark green and black furnishings, with large bookshelves tucked into the back and filled with tomes, each with sinister sounding titles. Tom Riddle crouched in the middle of the room specially designed for him, a cage of large and hairy spiders at his feet. A pale, brown wand, with a gnarly looking handle, was held delicately in his hand. It wasn't his own of course, merely his Uncle Morfin's that he had stolen over the summer. He was able to use it without incident so far, the wand no longer being tied to any magical signature, and had been using it to practice his dark magic. Of course, the wards around the school prevented the use of the Unforgivables, and as such he was forced to utilize the restricted section of the library and get creative.

His eyes glanced to the book before him, opened to a page that had a crude drawing of a man with his body caving in on him, deflating like a balloon. Clearing his throat, he uttered the incantation, aiming his wand at a plump, fist sized spider. Purple shot from the tip, wrapping around the little creature as it began to writhe. Like a ribbon, the light wound around it's hairy body and then tightened, the color absorbing inwards. The spider's body crumpled, his eight legs wriggling rapidly, for thirty-seven seconds- he made sure to keep count- and the form fell. It was dead.

He pursed his lips, chewing on his tongue as he pulled his journal closer and wrote down his observations, ink smearing the tips of his fingers. After, he closed it and began to pack up, having to head down to lunch.

He had to admit, he was quite excited for the dueling club this afternoon. He had grown bored with it long ago, when he was just a third year and realized that it offered no challenge to him. But Hermione...Hermione could add some interest to it perhaps.

When she had blocked his first attempts at legillimancy, he was relatively shocked, but still confident. As he increased his efforts and he still could not get through her barriers, he was, as much as he despised it, impressed. Granted, he was still new to the concept, but he prided himself in being a quick learner and a more then adept wizard. But the little witch had managed to pique his interest, something that was not easy to occur. Their class schedule was near identical, and she had demonstrated high intelligence in each, answering any question thrown her way (which there were many, with the professors wanting to test the academia level of their colleague's cousin.)

And now, he would get to see the full range of her practical knowledge of spells. Oh yes, he was excited. He wasn't quite certain what he would do with her, should she prove to be as competent as he was beginning to believe she may be. But he would need to keep a close eye on her, that much was definite. She could prove to be a valuable ally, or a formidable foe. Up until now, his close circle of friends consisted of male classmates and he hadn't really ever given thought to extending invitations to females. Of course, he knew that someday for his plans to come to fruition he would need to recruit women as well. It was simply that he hadn't met a woman worth while. Many of the females in his house were from traditional pureblood families, and as such were setting their sights primarily on obtaining a man- ideally wealthy and powerful. None of them seemed to have the drive to hold power of their own, a trait he found truly despicable. It was weak to not seek power, but it was pathetic to seek secondhand power.

Hermione however could be different. He was eager to learn more, but was aware he had to be careful. She was closely tied to Dumbledore, and that prying old bat was sure to fill her head with warnings and words of distrust. He would need to proceed carefully, would have to build her trust and make her want to join his cause. He couldn't resort to fear, and even if it was an option, he found himself not wanting to turn to it. It was a challenge, he knew, and if she did join him, he would want the ability to gloat to the elderly wizard himself. About he had swayed the young, estranged Dumbledore to his side, not with threats, but with praises. Not with torture, but with promises of power.

He smiled darkly, the act making his handsome and sculpted face look twisted and deranged in the midst of the green flames cast by the Room of Requirements. He couldn't help but fantasize his World, his men and army running a strict and dominating regime over the weak, the muggles. Perhaps, when the time came to kill the babbling fool, he would pass the torch to Hermione. He had always imagined himself being the one to end Dumbledore's life, but there was simply something far too poetic about having her committing the deed.

-xXx-

Author's Note: I wrote this chapter like three times before writing this version- a serious case of writer's block. I hope it was thoroughly enjoyed, and as always, please leave a review!