Notes: Thank you so, so much for your interest in and support of this story! I love you guys.

I realize I haven't broken my self-imposed schedule yet, but it's becoming difficult to get these chapters out by Friday night. I have a demanding full-time job, and the world is crazy and I think I live in one of the craziest parts of it. This story - and my other Tomione AU - are meant to be escapes from that, but I may need to set my update day on the weekend to unwind from the week better. If I do, don't worry; it'll still be updated weekly.

Chapter Seven: Best Served Cold

Alone in her bedchamber, Hermione pored over her magic books, looking for any and all aggressive spells that she thought she might be able to master quickly. She was unsure as to whether to humiliate Adelaide Lestrange and her pack in a public setting—like the Slytherin common room, or the corridor for the girls' chambers—or to harm them in other, more subtle, but perhaps also more damaging ways.

Hermione was already outperforming them in all the subjects of magic that they were learning. It seemed that this bothered some of them but not all; the Slytherin noble girls were divided between those who seemed more interested in being wealthy aristocrats and those who cared about being powerful sorceresses in addition. It was hard to say which category Lestrange fit. Others, though… a Confundus Charm was short-lasting, but there were also Memory Charms. The girls who wanted to cultivate reputations of being supremely powerful pureblood witches would be mortified if they suddenly forgot much of their knowledge.

Hermione had also read that Memory Charms, when cast powerfully enough, could cause the mind to have difficulty retaining complicated knowledge permanently at all, even information learned after the spell was cast upon them. The victims of these most powerful and damaging Memory Charms had poor memories for years.

Her conscience pricked at her for the thought of what she was contemplating… but would they do it to her if it occurred to them? Yes, she answered that thought. Without question. And I don't have to cast a spell in that damaging way, either. An ordinary Memory Charm is quite enough to cause the embarrassment I want them to experience.

What about the other girls, the ones who had—much as they themselves might hate to admit it—more "Muggle" ambitions revolving around nobility and wealth? Their dreams depended on their reputations as "young ladies," and it seemed that Tom had some information that would harm Adelaide Lestrange in that regard… but since they were witches, they too needed to be respected for their magical ability—or perceived ability, since it was all too clear to Hermione that pureblood nobles were automatically assumed to be better wizards and witches than anyone else—if they wanted to achieve their goals of marrying well.

Public humiliation for them, then? Hermione thought about subjecting them to the same sort of sneaky, degrading attack they had subjected her to, before dismissing the idea. The House does respect magical power and aristocratic bloodline, but I doubt my housemates would react quite the same way to me humiliating these girls publicly as they would to one of their own doing so. I am an outsider. They would probably close ranks against me even more than they have. Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode, the two girls who had not participated in the attack, might even become allies in time—as long as Hermione did not "lower" herself publicly to the same kind of disgusting assault that had so appalled them. No, as much as she hated the double standard, Hermione had to admit that it did exist: These girls could, mostly, get away with low behavior directed at her, but she could not.

Nobles duel, she suddenly thought. Muggles do, and I am sure that magical ones do as well, just with their wands. I could challenge them to a duel. That is a very traditional approach. An honorable duel… but I would have to win it, without doubt. And they have known of magic all their lives.

Hermione returned to her spellbooks. It was more important than ever to learn everything she could.

Tom drew his wand away from his forehead, pulling a silvery thread of memory in its wake. He held his wand over a flask he had conjured, then tapped his wand, releasing the memory into the glass bottle, where it transformed to faintly glowing smoke. He corked the flask.

This was rather advanced magic, he reflected, but he had made a point of teaching it to himself once Slughorn had declared him a "natural Legilimens." That much was true enough; he had the ability to perceive people's emotions innately, and this assessment had sparked his interest in all forms of magic pertaining to the mind. Memory storage was so vastly superior to anything the Muggles had. The best they could do was write down their thoughts. But memory storage was almost like a form of immortality… in fact, it probably was where the ancient Greek wizard Herpo had got his idea….

Tom pushed that thought away. He had not realized that his mother knew about that topic at all, and it had embarrassed him very deeply when she had scolded him in Diagon Alley before Hermione. He had thought that he could simply make vague allusions about the notion of the hypothetical Elixir of Life being inferior to what wizards already could do, showing off for Hermione his knowledge both of existing advanced magic and unrealized magical theory, while his mother assumed he was making a show of empty arrogance.

His thoughts drifted. Herpo… the Greek sorcerer had also bred the first basilisk. That was interesting for a different reason. There was a legend that Slytherin, before his departure from Hogwarts, had left a secret chamber somewhere in its depths, and that it housed a "great serpent" that only he, the Parselmouth, could control.

Well, Tom was a Parselmouth and a descendant of Slytherin. If there was a great serpent, he could control it too. He really wanted to get hold of those family history books in the castle library that his mother had not allowed him to read. As soon as she had seen him reading one, as soon as he had been foolish enough to ask her about their descent from Morgana le Fay and Mordred the Dispossessed, the Wizard-King in Exile, she had put a hex on all genealogy books in the library so that he could not touch them. "You aren't yet old enough to read about some of this," she had said. That was rubbish. He was plenty old enough. He wanted to know more, both about their royal (and purely English) origins and about this alleged Chamber of Slytherin.

He forced his drifting thoughts to return to the present and to the flask of memory before him. This was what he could do right now. He could humiliate Adelaide Lestrange, who had had it coming for over a year now for what she had constantly said about him last year—"Half-blood churl!"—but to whom he could do nothing due to his social status and his maleness.

Until now.

He handled the flask with a smirk forming on his face, almost caressing it. Yes, he could use this incredibly valuable memory against her now. He was her social equal now; even if his mother was not a Countess like hers, they were nobles now, and they owed Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange no fealty whatsoever. She had sworn directly to that decrepit Armand Malfoy. And more to the point, he was acting against Lestrange for what she had done to Hermione. It was potentially more than mere humiliation; there was the distinct possibility that her fiancé in Aquitaine would end the betrothal over this, diminishing any future prospects for her. It was not certain, but it was conceivable. Best case—for Tom—the foreigner would demand to have her brought to Europe to be married immediately, so her education would end and Tom would not have to deal with her anymore.

Yes, his betrothal to Hermione had given Tom a perfect excuse to do what he had wanted to do for months… but he still seethed with anger when he thought of the girls' revolting assault on Hermione. Pig's blood! It was both inherently disgusting and designed to degrade and debase her. The mere thought angered him on her behalf.

What do I really think of Hermione? he wondered. He wasn't pleased about her spending so much time with Potter, to be sure. Whenever she mentioned Potter's name, or he saw her walking down the halls and talking to the boy, something inside him burned with heated fury—especially since she did not seem to understand how much he disapproved of it. But at the same time, perhaps there was a certain logic for all the Slytherin "outsiders"—as much as it outraged him to think of himself in such a way—to band together. Maybe that was what it was for her. And did he want her returning to her overheated "affections" for him, as she had in those first couple of days? He was no fool. He knew perfectly well that she could not have "felt" anything for him other than silly infatuation. She had hardly even known him.

Now, though…. They had known each other for a couple of months, at least, and perhaps he had grown a little possessive of her. He could concede that to himself. It's because everyone knows about our betrothal, he told himself. Everyone knows, and it would look bad if too many people started to notice that she spends more time with a shopkeeper's son than with me.

By the time he turned in to go to bed, Tom had convinced himself that he believed this explanation of it.

The following day, after they had finished their instruction but before dinner, Tom took Hermione aside to tell her about his plot. The Slytherin common room would hardly do, so they found a deserted alcove in the castle on the first floor.

"That's a memory flask?" Hermione murmured as he withdrew it from the pouch he kept inside his outer layer of robes.

He was aware that this was not a question demanding an affirmative answer. "The memory could be rather damaging," he remarked.

"What is it?" she asked. A bit of trepidation shadowed her face. "If—if you think it's fit to discuss—"

Tom smirked. "It's not what I expect you think it is. She was thirteen when this happened. That's just old enough, yes, but…." He trailed off awkwardly at the thought entering his mind; he was thirteen too, and Hermione was that age in a couple of weeks. "This memory is of her in the tavern in Hogsmeade, thoroughly drunk, largely in the company of wizards. There was only one other witch at the bar with her, and I happened to see her hobbling back to the castle surrounded by the wizards."

Hermione's eyes widened and her face flushed. "Do you think they—I mean—" She broke off, turning even redder at the thought that she would not voice in words.

"I'm sure they wouldn't have dreamed of taking advantage of a noble witch with such a powerful father, and that nothing happened," Tom said, "but that's not the point. It looked awful, both for a 'young lady' to be publicly intoxicated after emerging from a lowbrow inn, and for her to stumble home in that state surrounded by wizards of similar status who weren't close relatives."

Hermione nodded. "It does seem very careless of her. Did she see you at the time?"

"I think she did, and I also think she was just lucid enough to remember it."

"So this—you are going to send it to her father?"

"No," he said, and his facial expression was positively malicious. "Her father would destroy it and probably try to put a Memory Charm on anyone who witnessed it. I'm going to send it to her betrothed in Aquitaine. He will either break it off with her—which will be a disgrace—or he'll demand that her family send her to him to be married off immediately. Either we will be rid of her, then, or her reputation will be ruined." He raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "Have you thought about what you intend to do?"

She smiled. "It's a fascinating coincidence that you should mention Memory Charms."

Tom's eyes gleamed with delight.

For the next couple of days, Hermione bided her time carefully. She decided that she should gain some practice casting Memory Charms… but the only way she could see to do that was to practice on the offending girls themselves.

Probably some of them were merely tagalongs, she mused. They had participated, of course, but they had not been the leaders or necessarily even the ones most enthusiastic about it. Lady Parkinson was very much that sort, a useless sycophant with barely an original thought in her own head, even a vicious thought. On the other hand, she was definitely not one of the ones who were interested in making a name for themselves as great witches. Of course, Hermione thought, public embarrassment at appearing incompetent would work on anyone. Perhaps I should attack all of them with Memory Charms and duel the leaders in public in addition. Yes, that made sense. Hermione modified her plans and considered her best opportunity to attack. Parkinson would be the first victim, then.

Hermione could not yet conceal herself from sight. That was a very advanced spell, and books warned that one did not always even have enough innate magical power to do it until approximately age seventeen. But she could hide in the shadows of the Slytherin girls' corridor late at night, a long grey cloak further sheltering her from the tired eyes of her housemates.

The Masters of Hogwarts taught nonverbal casting whenever a spell could be done that way. It was seen as a sign of magical weakness to have to speak words. Hermione was grateful for it, because she could cast the Obliviate upon the unsuspecting girl without potentially betraying her presence audibly either.

Parkinson blinked and stopped in the threshold of her room for a second. Hermione held her breath, and then the girl continued into her chamber, as if nothing had happened.

The next day in Potions, Hermione observed out of the corner of one eye as Parkinson fumbled and fumed over her cauldron, apparently having forgotten key attributes of several of her ingredients and, as a result, producing a mess.

Slughorn paused over the acrid fumes. "Lady Parkinson… what has happened? You brewed the Calming Draught last week. This is not so different."

"I am sorry," she said, flushed and angry. "I seem to have forgotten much of it." She drew her wand to vanish the useless muck in her cauldron.

"Well, that happens to all of us," he said genially. "But do be sure to practice extra so that you remember it better."

Millicent Bulstrode, who was near Parkinson, listened to the exchange and chuckled nastily. Her own potion was not perfect, nor close to it, but quite passable. Daphne Greengrass, her partner, smirked. They had no idea of the intrigue, but Slytherin House and the wizarding nobility were both intensely competitive and cutthroat, so any failing by a rival—and everyone who wasn't very closely related by marriage or blood (and even some of those) was a rival, even if they made common cause politically—was fodder for personal enjoyment.

Hermione lowered her head to hide the smirk she also bore so that Harry would not see. It wasn't that she distrusted his secrecy, but this might seem a bit sneaky and dubious to him. In some ways, she thought darkly, the common folk had more personal honor than the nobles, who might swear oaths of fealty and alliance but sometimes had no particular qualms about poisoning and other underhanded methods of taking out enemies. Her own parents did not—that she knew of—but they had spoken of peers who they believed did. Hermione would not be surprised to find that it was far more common among the magical aristocracy, who had powerful methods. This, after all, was quite mild. Tom would understand—approve—and he was the person she should confide her secrets to.

Satisfied with how well this had gone, Hermione went for three more of the girls that evening, leaving only Adelaide Lestrange with an undamaged memory. After considering her plans again, Hermione had refined them further. As the clear leader, Adelaide would suffer in the public duel. She would also apparently be the victim of Tom's… blackmail, if he merely threatened her with the memory, or material damage if he exposed it to the French fiancé. So far, no one suspected anything over the fact that several Slytherin girls were suddenly having difficulty in their magic. If Lestrange, who would be publicly set down over the incident, started acting forgetful too, it might draw unwanted attention to the other girls and expose what Hermione had done.

The following morning, Tom took her aside in the common room. "Meet me in the Owlery just after dinner tonight," he whispered. "I'm going to send it."

Hermione tried not to be distracted by the feeling of him whispering in her ear. She raised her eyebrows. "You won't… speak of it first? How will she know to attribute it rightly?"

He understood what she was asking, through her vague and seemingly benign questions. He shook his head in the negative. "She'll know it was me, but this way she can't prove it." He gazed at her pointedly. "We'll talk more then, and you can tell me more. I have heard the most interesting things."

His tone was admiring. Hermione flushed faintly at the praise, and it thrilled her that they were starting to bond over a common cause, even if that cause was a strategy for revenge.

The Owlery sported an expansive view of the rolling Scottish countryside that was especially magnificent in the fading light after sunset. Hermione could see a couple of stars already. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she noticed the tall, dark-haired young wizard in one corner, tentatively stroking the feathers of a large owl.

She approached him. He looked up, noticing her. "Hermione," he said in acknowledgment. He drew the memory flask out of the pouch on his belt and held it before her, his eyes glittering and his mouth breaking into that calculating smirk of his. "Here it is. As I mentioned earlier, I'm sending it to this lord because I don't think blackmail would be a good idea. She would, obviously, know exactly who had threatened her, and she might tell her usurping Norman father"—Tom winced for a brief moment as he realized, once again, that he had forgotten Hermione's part-Norman descent—"about my threat. He could harm my mother… or either of us. Or possibly even your parents."

Hermione gaped. In all of this scheming, she had not thought for one second about the risk to her non-magical parents. "But… there is a defense clause in our families' contract, isn't there?" she exclaimed.

He considered that. "Yes, there is… and I am sure that, if she hasn't yet done so, my mother will send some people to your parents' castle to put up magical protections to prevent that very kind of attack. Perhaps Lord Severus can do it. They know that if they do anything to your parents, my mother will retaliate, and since they're Muggles, my mother might even bring it to the Muggle aristocracy's attention. I very much doubt that the Wizards' Council wants our people involved in the Muggle conflict," he added, smiling darkly. "But they—your parents, I mean—won't be in extra danger right now anyway, because if I send this directly to the Frenchman, no attribution to myself, then Lestrange will certainly believe I did it in retaliation but will not be able to prove it."

Hermione frowned, taking all this in. It made sense.

"Now," he continued, his smirk broadening, "what about you? I have heard the most interesting complaints from your attackers and their male associates. It seems that they have been having a great deal of trouble with their studies lately." His eyes were gleaming with approval.

"I used Memory Charms on them," she admitted. "All of them except Lestrange. Her, I intend to duel publicly."

Tom nodded in approval. "A good front to conceal the Memory Charms. And—Hermione, your magical ability is extraordinary. I hope you realize that."

It was not false flattery. He meant it, and he was legitimately impressed. Hermione smiled—but then she remembered that Tom had always been impressed with her magical skill.

She decided to plunge forward and ask him about the issues that had dogged her thoughts for the past week. "Tom, I thank you—sincerely—but may we talk about some things, now that we are alone?"

Tom glanced at the owl. He believed he understood what sorts of "things" she had in mind, and he realized it would be a complicated discussion if so. He took a deep breath, slid the flask into the leather pouch that was bound to the owl's legs, and summoned a scurrying rat from the castle floor. The owl took the squeaking rodent in its sharp talons and cast off in a majestic, threatening black shadow.

He turned to her. "All right. What do you want to discuss?" He grimaced inwardly about how cold that had come out.

Hermione did not flinch or draw away. She eyed him, not disapprovingly, but also without any sign of the girlish adoration that she had shown him at the beginning of their relationship. "I want to discuss us," she said simply. "Specifically, I wish you would tell me why you have been so cold toward me here at Hogwarts."

"I haven't been cold toward you," he said defensively. "I have treated you as I should."

"You have," she insisted. "You escort me, yes—you do exactly as you should and always act like the nobleman that you are—but you show no warmth and little friendliness to me. We don't even talk about magic here! At least we had that at your mother's castle. I just don't understand. And Harry…."

Tom's face had soured at the mention of that name. Hermione noticed. "Are you jealous of him, Tom?" she charged.

"Of course I'm not. He's a shopkeeper's son. There's nothing to be jealous of."

"You're jealous of the time I spend talking to him," she said. "I remember what you said to me when we had that first argument. You were worried that I would meet another boy here. That's what it is, isn't it? Tom—you have no reason to be! I know that you were raised differently than I was. I understand that. But I wouldn't betray you!"

Tom considered what to say. Her charges of jealousy of Potter over her attentions were completely accurate, and he was not sure he even wanted to deny that to her face. He would then have to concoct another explanation for his attitude to Potter, and it would only further her fears that he did not care anything for her. "My mother ran away from her family to marry for love," he finally said. "Or… desire, at least. I don't know. But she gave up wealth and power for fourteen years to do it, Hermione."

"Had they picked out someone else for her?"

Tom hesitated. He had tried to get that information out of his mother, and she had certainly implied that they had not, but she had not stated it outright. "I don't know," he said. "But whether they had or not, she lost everything because she met someone she liked better than the family riches. And I've heard of nobles who betray their spouses all the time," he added sourly. "Men and women." And it is atrocious to think of being cast off in favor of someone else.

Hermione looked appalled. "I have heard of such things, too, of course, but I am not that kind of woman."

"I wasn't saying that you were," he said at once. "I meant before your marriage."

"I don't see it as that different," she said stubbornly. "Honor is honor. I wear your ring. And this is all beside the point, because I like you, Tom! But you made it very clear to me that you didn't want me to show you that, so I stopped after the first couple of days at your mother's castle. So I don't understand why you would choose to be jealous of Harry when you don't show warmth to me yourself and don't seem to want me to show it to you. Does it embarrass you?"

He wanted to glare at her, but only for a fraction of a second. Her questions were perfectly logical, and he could see that when he looked at it objectively. "It annoyed me when you showed 'warmth' to me at first because we had just met, and I was angry with my mother over what she had done, and I knew that you could not really care for me that early since you barely knew me."

She considered this, though it made her blush in shame that he was implying that she had acted silly at that early stage. "Are you still angry with your mother? You don't act it. Even before we came to Hogwarts, you have acted as though you had accepted this."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive," he said defensively. "I had accepted it, you might say… but I was still angry with her. Frankly, Hermione…." He hesitated for a moment. What he was about to say would hurt her feelings. But it was his honest opinion, which was what she wanted, right? He continued, "I know why nobles play matchmaker with their children. They want to make alliances for mutual protection. But your parents can do precious little to defend my mother's keep… and they bring little, if any, political benefit in the wizarding part of the aristocracy… so it seemed to me that our parents were using me in order to get you admitted to Hogwarts, and that was it."

Hermione was staring at him, eyes wide. He plunged ruthlessly ahead. "I couldn't see what we got out of it, or specifically, what I did, for a while at first. Don't cry, Hermione"—for those large eyes were welling with unshed tears. "I said 'at first.' That changed after I got to know you better. You are so superior to others at this school…."

She blinked away the tears and took a deep breath. "And that is why you accepted it?"

"Mostly," he said. There was a hint of truculence in his voice. "And… I got used to my new status. It became a part of that, in a way."

She gave him a nod. "That's fitting," she said, a bit of that know-it-all officiousness returning to her voice. "It is a part of it, almost always."

"But"—he turned aggressive again—"it's marriage, Hermione. It's not that our parents are merely encouraging us to be friends. They wrote a contract for marriage. Do you actually comprehend what that means?"

Hermione glared stonily at him. "I grew up with two parents, Tom Riddle. Your father died before you knew him, and your mother did not remarry. Maybe the right question is, do you comprehend what that means?"

Tom was startled and rather affronted for a moment, but rapidly those feelings changed to pride in her. He liked it when she was strong and met him face-to-face. "I have lived in the world too, Hermione," he said. "But… I take your point. You comprehend what it means. You were just raised as a noble, so this has been normal to you for your whole life."

She nodded. "I wish you would believe me when I say that I like you, and that I value my word and honor and I would not cheat on our agreement… and that my feelings for Harry Potter are purely amiable in any case. But even if you can't do that yet, I just want to be friends for now, Tom. Just friends. If you're worried about Harry, doesn't it make sense to be friends with me anyway?"

Tom considered. He remained silent for a while, and Hermione spoke once more. "My parents' marriage was arranged by their parents. They—my grandparents—wanted a really strong alliance, so there were actually two marriages, my aunt and uncle as well as my parents… but my parents are still very kind and affectionate to each other. I know that they're friends. That was also something that I grew up observing." She left off at that, but Tom knew what was unspoken: "And I want that too."

He nodded and extended a hand to her. The fact that she had mentioned her parents as "friends" rather than an infatuated pair in a heated romance comforted him… and her logic about Potter was sound. It impressed him; he had truly not thought of it that way, that he was potentially harming his own interests by letting Potter be the one to offer her the most attention. "I can do that," he said, feeling the warmth of her hand as she slipped it into his.

She smiled as the sky turned to midnight blue and more stars came out.

The occupants of the Slytherin common room raised their collective eyebrows as Tom entered the room holding hands with a girl. Any hint of intrigue was like gold to a niffler to them. But as soon as they saw that the girl was Hermione, and therefore that there was no potential scandal, interest faded—except in one quarter. Adelaide Lestrange, surrounded by her pack of extremely unhappy-looking girls, glared at the pair silently.

Harry Potter was seated by himself in a corner. Tom paused as he noticed the younger boy. Then he turned to Hermione, gave her a nod, and released her hand, heading toward Potter's corner.

Hermione turned to Lestrange. Now was as good a time as any. She mustered her courage.

"I'm calling you out, 'Lady' Adelaide," she said, her words quiet—though loud enough for others to hear—but steely.

Lestrange met her eyes. "You dare to call me out, Mudblood?"

"You led an unprovoked attack on me. You meant to shame me, by your choice of 'materials' to use against me, but you disgraced yourself by your actions. It was underhanded, disgusting, and more befitting of a lowborn bandit than a lady." Her words grew stronger still. "As is my right by our laws, I challenge you to a magical duel."

They had the attention of everyone in the Slytherin common room at this point. Lestrange glanced around quickly, realized this, and realized that there was nothing to be done but accept the challenge. She sneered at Hermione. "Accepted. Do you feel up to it right now, Mudblood? Let's get this over with, so you can go back to your bedchamber and cry some more. Or maybe go back to your Muggle parents where you belong."

Hermione glared back. "I won't be the one going anywhere." She glanced at the two boys in the corner, who were watching closely, and drew her wand. "I have no objection to dueling right now."

One of Lestrange's… friends, or whatever they were, Hermione supposed… tugged at her sleeve in what she imagined was an unobtrusive manner. "Adelaide," the girl whispered, "are you sure you want to do this right now, in front of everyone?"

"Be quiet, Rosier," the girl commanded. She stood and drew her wand on Hermione. "I suppose we must bow, even though you do not deserve it."

She won't attack me during our bow with the entirety of Slytherin, including Tom, watching her, Hermione thought as she bowed to the girl, who did the same.

As soon as their heads bobbed back up, they were ready. "Reducto!" Lestrange bawled.

Hermione blocked it nonverbally, which she noticed out the corner of her eye earned her immediate respect from the Slytherins, just as Lestrange's verbal screeching of a spell lost her some of their respect—at least momentarily.

Unfortunately, the spell Hermione meant to use was one she could not yet cast silently. "Confringo!" she exclaimed. A heated pressure wave exploded from her wand, catching Lestrange. Although it was nowhere as strong as it would have been if cast by a trained adult witch or wizard, it was still enough to impress the young people in the room. Shock filled the older girl's eyes as she stumbled, small flames catching at her robes from the curse.

"You filthy Mudblood!" she raged, but the time spent shouting the insult cost her dearly. Hermione sent a jinx at her almost completely nonverbally, only whispering it under her breath. The girl tripped over her own legs.

Hermione smirked. Expelliarmus, she thought, expecting the duel to end—

—Lestrange blocked it, only just, but with her quick defense, the duel was not yet over. She rose to her feet, still wobbly, and sent a silent Fire-eye Jinx at Hermione. Shocked, she blocked it, but only barely. Furious, both with herself for letting her guard down, and with this girl for using something like that—that would have been horribly distracting if it had hit, and it might have lost her the duel—Hermione mustered her magical energy and hurled a nonverbal Stupefy at the girl. It struck.

Grimly satisfied and proud, Hermione cast the Expelliarmus once more. Lestrange's wand sailed into her hand. She pointed it over the prone girl, contempt and triumph radiating from her face. Lestrange gazed back furiously, but she knew what everyone else in the room knew. The Mudblood had beaten her in a duel of honor.

The smirk on Tom's face was broader than she had ever before seen it.

End Notes: Dueling, blackmail/information exposure, and Memory Charms? Edgy, but everything that Hermione does here (or authorizes Tom to do) is something that she does in canon. No, she didn't do it this young, but this is a darker, more ruthless era, and this Hermione has to toughen up really fast.

The "Fire-eye Jinx" is the Conjunctivitis spell that Krum used on his dragon. I don't think they would call it that medical-sounding name in the 1100s.