AN: Welcome back, mes amis... (Yes, my trip was amazing; thank you all for your support and love! I missed you so much!) OK, so from now on the chapters are going to be a smiiiidgen lengthier, but it's only because we're meeting multiple new characters and because action is becoming a permanent part of this fic. We're also - sadly - starting to reach our end of this fic. *sobs*
Thanks for the reviews and your patience. Y'all are gems.
London, England
seven years prior 1896
Tonight.
This was the word Tom told himself all through the day.
This is the night. This was the thought he repeated in his head as he ate in a cafeteria with seventy-nine other boys dressed in drab grey tunics. As he was marched down narrow grey hallways, shoulder-to-shoulder and single-file.
It was the mantra he quietly chanted while boys intoned the Bible reading around him, seated in a row of faceless grey, listening to the priest drone on and glaring up at him. The chapel's vibrant rose windows and stained glass made all seventy-nine of them appear even more washed out than they already were.
I'm getting out tonight. I'm finally leaving. He held onto it fast when visitors came and wandered through the rickety floors, browsing for boys as they browsed through the vendor's meat pies and sausage-rolls in the park. He thought it when they walked right by him. When they paused and scanned his hollow face, said thank you with promising smiles and moved on without once ever looking back.
He whispered it while washing the dishes, until his hands looked like pink prunes and the front of his uniform dripped soap.
He thought of nothing but it and he glowered at Mrs. Cole, hustling around their rooms and doing her daily cleaning inspection. She caught his look and blanched, averting her eyes hastily. She didn't like him. He knew it. All the boys knew it.
For all the boys were afraid of him – and rightfully so.
Mrs. Cole interrupted his thoughts by barking at Billy Stubbs, who'd had a wet dream the night before and forgot to clean his sheets. His thoughts were impure. Didn't he know that pleasuring oneself was a sin? He must read more of the Bible to cleanse his dirty mind. The other children sniggered.
Tom never laughed.
Late at night, a quarter past eleven o' clock, he climbed out of bed and slipped out the brown trunk from under his bed. It had a shoebox in it, filled with useless items that had slowly become his treasures. Among the knickknacks were a broken yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ. The Gaunt family ring - which he'd finally begun to grow into - loosely circled his thumb.
Good riddance, little Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop.
Tom allowed himself a victorious hoot in the crisp autumn air of London, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting out. Free. He was free at last.
Oh, if it wasn't for that copper who found him wandering the streets after escaping Uncle Morfin and his blown-up house, then he would've never ended up in that shabby home for bastards. And as far as Tom was concerned, he had no reason to ever look back either. To have ever been there.
Straightening up, the scrappy runaway pulled back his shoulders and left behind the grey orphanage that he had been condemned to for the past six years without a second glance. He disappeared around the street corner with a brown trunk in-hand. He had a plan.
The trunk rattled with useless treasures.
The House of Black, England
February of 1896
The carriage came to a stop outside the Black's residence. Hermione peered out the window, at a towering estate laid in the center of sprawling snowy hills and endless countryside. The country estate they were to visit was at least four stories high and composed of red-brick, with slate roofing and elaborate pediments stationed above the door. Within this grand mansion she would change her fate forever.
Gloved hands nervously clutched the purse in her lap.
"Come along, my pet," said Lady Hermione's aunt Bellatrix, rousing her from her thoughts. The groom had placed their calling cards and confirmed Lady Black's acceptance of them. They were to enter the household now. "Remember to be gracious." And her aunt rose, taking the chauffer's loaned hand and letting him help her to the ground. Hermione followed suit silently.
Approaching the large estate ahead, Bellatrix Lestrange thought of the-hairdresser-turned-lover Lady Black was rumored to have in Paris with dark amusement.
Hermione Malfoy thought of Master Riddle's parting words, do not fail, with the creeping sensation of doubt.
What if she did fail? What if she couldn't do this? What then?
Do not bother going back, Madame Defarge chimed in. You'll be better off as an emigrant lined up for La Guillotine.
Ah, how comforting that darling French rebel was.
But then a butler was saving them from the merciless cold, opening the decorous front doors and welcoming them with kind scripted words she did not catch. An entire procession of servants and maids awaited them inside the main hall, dusting and polishing and scrubbing away. There seemed to be a servant for everything. One maid with orange-red hair came flitting across the black-and-white tile floors to take their cloaks and bonnets, curtsying before hurrying away again.
Does she look forward to serving her masters for the very last time? Hermione wondered somewhat morbidly, watching the maid as she left them. And how long had she secretly supported the resistance? Did any of the help at their own manor support the cause?
Pretenses. Once you saw one, the rest came to light everywhere you looked.
"If you would come with me to the parlor, ladies," a nameless butler said, folding his hands behind his back and keeping his eyes to the floor respectively. "Lady Black has been awaiting your arrival."
"And what of Lord Black?" Bellatrix inquired.
"He will return from his errands in Diagon Alley soon, I expect, Lady Lestrange."
As Bellatrix continued to fire questions at the help Hermione searched for the infamous portrait Master Riddle had told her of. It was rude to examine any articles in the room while awaiting your hostess, but she could not help herself from looking for just a short moment.
Smooth plastered walls painted beige lined the interior of the Black's manor, paired with large sash windows that sent a blinding on-slaughter of light splashing through the vestibule. Hermione was careful to keep her optimistic expression in place when her eyes at last landed on it: the portrait.
Lady Black I looked on from her perch in a gilded frame less than a mere dozen feet away, smiling agreeably and looking on without a word. She was quick to realign her eyes back to her aunt lest the portrait's all-seeing gaze befell her.
Suddenly, there was a shrill, ear-piercing scream.
"Filth! Vermin! Mudbloods in my house!" Lady Black I howled, stunning them all. Bellatrix glanced away from the butler, offering him a much-needed reprieve, and frowned at the portrait. "Out, out, I say! Do not tarnish these floors with your cursed steps–"
"What is this?" Bellatrix demanded. "Why does she accuse us of un-noble blood?"
"I-I-I apologize, Lady Lestrange," stammered the nameless butler, obviously just as much at a loss as she. "I have no idea why our Lady is-"
"You dirt-blooded rat, leave my property at once! I will have you beheaded before the night is through-"
"Oh, for the love of Lord Merlin, would someone Silence that babbling fool?" Bellatrix snapped, her heavy-lidded eyes disdainful and pouty red lip curled. "Her enchantment requires a renewal. She's obviously deranged if she thinks that we are Mudbloods."
"Yes, of course, Lady Lestrange." The nameless butler called for assistance immediately, and in seconds another phalanx of footmen and maids had scurried in to attempt to calm Lady Black I, struggling to secure curtains over her shrieking person. "Come with me, ladies," he ushered, quickly taking them away. "Perhaps she mistakened one of the help as an intruder. They are all registered, but sometimes, she forgets…"
They were led then across wide sweeping floors, under ornate cornices and frescoed ceilings and glistening chandeliers. They passed more servants, who silently moved through the halls, watching out of the corners of their eyes, sending glares to their masters when they were not looking, beating rugs free of dust and skinning chickens they imagined to be Purebloods. They would skin her should she let them down.
The screams of Lady Black I silenced.
Bellatrix turned her head in a nearly imperceptible swivel, nearing Hermione a half-step and speaking in tones low enough that the butler ahead would not overhear them. "Lady Black," she murmured, "is very selective when choosing those whom she associates with. Be careful of what you say during our visit, Hermione. She has…ways…of turning the lives of people she does not take a liking to, to ruin."
Hermione blanched.
They arrived at a large parlor then and Bellatrix pulled away to cheerfully greet a woman dressed in evening wear, donning simple yet tasteful pearl earrings that matched the necklace circling her large neck and an amiable smile. This must be Lady Black.
"Lady Black, may I introduce you to my lovely niece, Miss Hermione Malfoy?"
Lady Black's eyes slowly left her aunt to skewer Hermione, seeing the strange mask and wilting rose in her hair – and the kind smile vanished without a trace.
Hermione went pink. About a thousand of Umbridge's rules on manners and etiquette flew through her head at that instant, bombarding her all at once. Do not hasten to seat yourself; stand for a moment and make pleasant conversation. Do not introduce unpleasant topics, argue, or tell long stories when making a call. If you wish to secure a person's attention, do not call their name across the room, but go to them and speak quietly. Never discuss gossip; only ladies that make trouble will seek it. If necessary, use a handkerchief, but do not glance at it afterwards and be as discreet as possible. Smile. Be pleasant. Lift all those that are around you with your optimism…
Above all, your goal is to ensure the happiness of others and to fill their needs before your own.
Satan did not want her to fill their needs, however.
Bellatrix and Lady Black were staring at her expectantly, waiting. Hermione remembered herself and fell into a curtsy at once, saying "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Black. Your home is so very charming – and I do hope that you are in good health."
"I am, as a matter of fact. Thank you." Lady Black examined her closely. "Why, what a beautiful curtsy you make, my darling. I imagine it took years to perfect such seamless movement."
She was testing her.
"Thank you, but it requires only practice and the will to learn the ways of a proper English lady," Hermione replied, humbly. "So that I may one day be an able wife and mother."
"And that is the most important task of all." Lady Black's smile made its grand return and she nearly sighed in relief, rising. "Why don't we chat and have tea? I have been looking forward to your visit, my dear Bella, ever since you last left us."
Bellatrix laughed delightedly. "Why am I not surprised?"
They sat. They drank tea. They discussed meaningless things, among them being the 'agreeable' weather, the Earl of Lenchester's wife and the young boys she supposedly harbored inappropriate thoughts for, a painting on the wall and how lovely color x looked beside color y. Inside, Hermione was bored to death and wished very much to be in her chambers alone with one of her Muggle books. Or Master Riddle, perhaps.
Until.
"Lady Black, I have an idea," Bellatrix exclaimed far too loudly – for Lady Black had bid a servant to bring them sherry an hour ago and the of-age ladies had already drunk far too much of it. "Why don't you show Lady Hermione your new necklace? I am sure she would appreciate the history behind it. She has an affiliation for that sort of thing."
At this, Bellatrix smiled at her niece knowingly, as if to say Now you see how very well I know you, my pet. Hermione returned the smile forcibly.
"An excellent suggestion. I'll return shortly," Lady Black agreed. She rose to her feet unsteadily, eyes dilated, and forgetting that she could have simply had one of the help retrieve the necklace for her.
Hermione and Bellatrix watched her wobble away.
"She is fat as a hippo, isn't she?" Bellatrix muttered once their hostess was gone, tipping down the rest of her drink and setting down the empty glass. She held alcohol better than Lady Black, and her limbs did not waver as she moved them.
"I am not an alcoholic, if that is what you are thinking, Hermione," Bellatrix said sharply, and she moved her eyes hastily.
"I was not… I do not presume that, Aunty."
"Hm." Bellatrix stared across the parlor at the elegant French doors, leading to a patio and framed by gauze curtains. She bit the edge of her finger gently in thought, then stopped the poor behavior when she realized its existence.
"I am not like your mother either," she said quietly. "I've never been anything like Cissy."
"Oh," Hermione responded, because she did not know what else to say. What could she say? Yes, you are like my mother. You are just like her in fact. Or You're right; you are nothing like her. But she did not know.
She did not know her own mother.
"I always wanted a daughter," Bellatrix continued, rather nonchalantly. Hermione looked to her in surprise.
"I didn't know you wanted children," she said.
"I am incapable of bearing them."
The silence that followed was so thick it could be sliced.
Bellatrix pressed two gloved fingers to her mouth, staining the starch-white fabric with rouge, and she smiled. "I thought it was Rodolphus's fault at first, but when I tried it with the halfbloods they all produced the same results. You see, the babies just kept slipping out of me halfway through… like they couldn't find anything to hold onto. As if they'd lost their grip inside me."
Hermione's corset felt very tight. Tighter than her prickling throat. "I'm so sorry, Aunty Bella," she said softly. Sorry for your babies. Sorry that I must put an end to the madness that has consumed you, to the madness you have put countless others through. Slowly, she opened her purse.
"You have nothing to be sorry for. It's the fault of men. Men will always disappoint you." The witch closed her eyes. "Your father has disappointed your mother, you know."
Hermione paused. Her fingers froze around the wandbox and she looked up, frowning at her aunt. "What do you mean?"
"I mean many things." Eyes still shut, Bellatrix snapped her fingers and commanded one of the nearby servants to pour her a glass of water, so that she might recover herself. They left for the kitchens in a swirl of crisp folds and skirted uniform.
Bellatrix sighed. "Your mother is a drunk," she stated. "Her behavior is scandalous and upon my return, it has come to my attention that she's become worse since I last was here. There is a rift, as well, between Lord Malfoy and Cissy, my pet."
"What rift?" she found herself asking.
"You." At last, Bellatrix opened her eyes and gazed at her. "Cissy confessed to me that you ruined her marriage."
Hermione shook her head slowly. "I…I did not do anything to-"
"But you did, Hermione." Her aunt touched her cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture. "Admit it. You were born and you were born beautiful."
"I don't understand."
The witch sighed. "But don't you?"
He didn't say a word.
Would you include me in your whispering to the Lord, angel?
No. Not tonight. No.
The mattress bowed as a form dipped it.
The scent of laudanum burned… fingers pulled through her loose hair gently.
He only stared.
She knew he wanted to touch her. He wanted her.
Bellatrix knew.
Perhaps she had known for a very long time.
And yet, she had failed to try to protect her niece.
Anger rushed through Hermione – but she stifled it fast.
"Aunty Bella," she said, suddenly, with a perfectly pretty smile in firm place. "What a lovely embroidery your dress has on the sleeve. May I observe it? I am studying stitching, myself."
Bellatrix looked startled, but willing. She held out her arm. "If you would like to, go ahead."
The servant returned with water and Bellatrix drank it, while Hermione ran her fingers along the pattern on a dress sleeve and traced the outline of the wand tucked inside it. She only needed to nudge it out now.
"It is very intricate," she doted. "Obviously, it was stitched by an expert hand-"
Hermione gasped in surprise when Bellatrix's wand accidentally clattered to the floor. "I'm so sorry, Aunty Bella. Here, let me-" And she moved to a stand, but her foot slipped and sent the wand sliding under the sofa out to the other side.
"You are clumsy today, aren't you?" Bellatrix disapproved.
"It appears so." Hermione blushed and hurried behind the sofa, falling to her knees like some sort of scullery maid and swiftly exchanging Bellatrix's wand for the one stashed in her purse. Her heart pounded.
"What are you doing on the floor?" her aunt snapped, poking her head over the top to watch. Hermione's face was bright pink. "Get up, before Lady Black sees you!" she hissed. "You'll have us humiliated if someone catches you like that."
"Sorry." She was careful not to let her tainted gloves touch any part of herself. She returned to her seat quickly. "Here, your wand."
Bellatrix, scowling deeply, took the replica wand and put it inside her sleeve. Hermione looked on with a dark, silent satisfaction. "What in the name of Lord Merlin is wrong with you?" her aunt grumbled. "Why didn't you just summon it?"
"I didn't think to."
She gave her an odd look.
But before anymore could be said, Lady Black arrived, and both ladies pasted on their most pleasant expressions as she glided into the room. She carried an ornately-carved wooden box and seemed steadier her on her feet. "I apologize for having taken so long," she began, "but there are many wards and enchantments in place that protect my most precious possession..."
Lady Black sat down opposite them, gingerly putting the box on the low table between them and smoothing her fingers over the surface in a neat caress. She met Hermione's eyes with a private smile. "The necklace once belonged to Salazar Slytherin, one of the great founders of Hogwarts. (Did you know Dumbledore attended Hogwarts? Yes?) Well, it is officially called Slytherin's Locket. I had a very hard time acquiring it."
"How intriguing," said Hermione. "And why is that, if I may ask?"
"The lady I purchased it from, Lady Hepzibah of the Smiths, is not keen to sell," Lady Black explained. "She rarely auctions any items at all, so I was very lucky to be able to obtain such a treasured antique."
You won't be lucky for long, mon amie... Madame Defarge whispered.
It's not right to just take the locket from her, Miss Pross said in protest, looking stern. You know better than this, Ladybird.
It is for Master Riddle though, Psyche reminded her. He said it has sentimental value. Moreover, it does not truly belong to Lady Black. It belongs to Slytherin. And isn't Master Riddle a Slytherin?
Psyche had a point.
"How fortunate," Hermione finally said.
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Lady Black replied. Her hands hovered over the locks of the wooden case. "Would you like to see it, Lady Hermione? I could give you a quick peek, if you would like."
She confirmed.
Lady Black murmured a spell, which in turn unlocked the heavy wards vibrating around the case, and she lifted the lid gently. Bellatrix and Hermione leaned forward to look inside.
A locket made of pure gold, embedded with diamonds and emeralds that curved to form an elegant S on the gleaming surface, dazzled their eyes. A low gasp escaped Bellatrix. Lady Black hung protectively over her prize, letting them admire it and voice their compliments before greedily closing the case once more. Hermione and Bellatrix moved back.
"Mudblood, come. Put this away," Lady Black ordered, snapping her fingers. A maid with brown hair came forward and took the box. Hermione watched the woman walk away, knowing she would meet her again soon to possess the locket.
"Lord Black should be arriving soon," Lady Black went on. "He is probably with his colleagues at Bellinis, having brandy and cigars again. You know how men are."
They all laughed.
When Lord Black finally did come, he came to the parlor and greeted them politely. Hermione had seen the man many times before. Sometimes, at the opera Lord Malfoy annually took her to, and at other times when he visited their manor with a number of other Dumbledore followers for a visit. But she was never allowed out of her chambers when there were visitors.
A servant came in and announced supper.
Hermione drew her strength. The plan was almost complete, and so far everything had been executed correctly. Bellatrix had already used the replica wand twice to cast charms during conversation, gloved fingers rubbing the arsenic-laden wood, tucking it away before subconsciously touching her hair to fix a curl, to tap a digit against her mouth, to nibble on it in thought.
The replica wand has been polished with an arsenic-based potion. Do your best not to touch it – and under any circumstances – do not allow it to touch your mouth. As soon as it enters Lady Lestrange's bloodstream, it will begin to poison her.
Aunty Bella would be dead by tomorrow morning.
"Excuse me," Hermione said, interrupting the entourage moving toward the dining hall with a courteous smile. Bellatrix, Lady Black, Lord Black, and even the escorting servant turned round to face her. "I hate to be a nuisance, but I must excuse myself, if I may."
Lady Black frowned. "But of course." She gestured at a nearby maid, the one with brown hair, who was elbows-deep in a marble fireplace and had to put down her scrub brush before scrambling to a stand. "You there, escort Lady Hermione to our facilities."
The maid nodded, wiping her hands clean on her apron and moving to Hermione. "Right this way, m'lady…"
Behind them, the procession resumed their trek to supper – sans one member – and Hermione said her thanks to the maid, following the woman out into the hall. They went down another two and Hermione was wondering what to say, wondering whether or not this was the maid she was to meet or simply a random one who did not know of the plan at all. What would she do then? Master Riddle had said the maid would find her…
Suddenly, the maid stopped and turned around.
Her hair was a brilliant shade of pink.
"I'm Tonks," the woman introduced, sticking out her hand, which Hermione shook awkwardly. Before she could return the greeting, however, Tonks plunged on, "So you're the newest recruit, eh? Awfully scrawny. But you did a good job of switching Lady Lestrange's wand – I had to fight back a real laugh when you got on the floor. Anyhow, I have the locket for you here." And she extracted first a golden chain from the deep pockets of her stained apron, which was closely followed by the priceless locket of Salazar Slytherin.
Gems glittered at them in the dimness of the hall and Hermione accepted the locket, thanking her and carefully tucking the surprisingly heavy object inside her purse. Master Riddle had said he wanted it for sentimental value. But what did that mean, exactly?
When this was all over, she promised herself she would ask him.
"Tonks, how did you…" She hesitated. "Ah, I mean, wasn't your hair…different before?"
"Was it?" And now Tonks changed her hair from pink to purple, then purple to coral blue and coral blue to a deep, boiling scarlet. "It was orange, too, when you first got here. But I switched it up to keep things interesting."
"You're a Metamorphmagus?"
Tonks beamed. "Born and raised." She changed her hair to a tame dirty blonde, pulling free a wand – Hermione had never seen a Mudblood in possession of a wand before – and she tapped her apron to rid it of any stains.
"Now I must be going, Lady Hermione," she said. "Once you take your leave, Moody and Remus will arrive to cast the wards that will keep Lady and Lord Black from exiting overnight – a necessary precaution, naturally, and Moody is very paranoid so – and then, you see, the wards'll be lifted by morning when Lady Lestrange is pronounced dead. Food poisoning will probably be assumed to be her undoing and the help will be blamed and sentenced to death, so it's my job to get them out of here."
Tonks started away and Hermione stared wordlessly after her, bewildered and buzzing with too many questions to count. For instance, who were Remus and Moody? She had to presume they were more members of the resistance. And how would Tonks get the help away without the Blacks seeing? It all seemed impossible suddenly.
"Oh! One more thing." Tonks whirled around several feet away, facing her once more. "When the second round of wine comes out... don'tdrink it."
She blinked, horror coursing through her. "You're poisoning the Blacks as well?"
Tonks laughed, genuinely. "Don't be silly. They don't need to be eliminated – not yet, anyway."
She was about to flounce off again, but Hermione said "Wait!" and stopped her. Tonks waited.
"Do you know…by any chance…who-" Hermione paused. "-who Lord Voldemort is?"
Suddenly, the playfulness abandoned Tonks's expression all at once. The witch's eyes went wide, her face ashen. "You dare speak his name?" she whispered.
Hermione frowned. "What do you mean? Volde-?"
"Sssh!" Tonks glanced at the empty corridor around them, then quickly returned to her side and shoved them into the shadowy perimeter unlit by gas-lamps. Hermione asked what was wrong, but it was only to be fiercely shushed again.
"How can you not know who he is?" Tonks said lowly. Her eyes did not sparkle as they had before, but were dead serious.
"I suppose I've never heard of him?" she offered.
"That's impossible. If you'd never heard of him, you wouldn't be here."
"What do you mean?" she said, intrigued. "And why won't you say his name?"
"It is out of respect. We call him my Lord or You-Know-Who."
"Or you could say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, couldn't you?"
"It's not a joke," Tonks said rather snappishly. Hermione went quiet. "You-Know-Who is the leader of our resistance. He will replace Dumbledore when we take over and lead us, restoring the correct social order to the Wizarding World. He sent me here. For Merlin's sake, he sent you here. I don't understand – how can you not know who he is?"
But she did.
He sent you here. It dawned on her then, who Lord Voldemort was, and another pretense added itself to an ever-growing list along with her revelation. Oh, it all made terrible sense. How did she not see it? How could he keep this from her? When did he plan to tell her who he really was? Did he plan to, at all?
Master Riddle.
…was Lord Voldemort.
Tonks was one of his followers.
And, for now, she was as well.
"I must go, Lady Hermione," Tonks said, leaving her. "Stay here. Dobby will find you."
"Dobby?" she questioned, but Tonks did not turn back this time and in seconds she was alone again. Left to her thoughts.
You are a murderer. Satan said the terrible words with an even more terrible smirk. When you die, you'll be underneath the ground with me. For eternity.
Do not make this any worse than it already is, Miss Pross pleaded. Leave now, while you can. Confess your sins.
Then she'll go straight to La Guillotine! Madame Defarge snarled. Shut your trap, or you'll get us all beheaded.
Follow the plan. Psyche could not find balance in the situation, so she clung to the only hope in all the world: the plan. Master Riddle's plan. Follow the plan and don't stray from it.
The times are changing, said Satan. If you don't change with them, you won't be coming along for the ride at all. Think of yourself. You want to live, don't you?
Miss Pross pumped her trusty Bible into the air, chin high. Some things are more important than oneself! Like MORALS!
Madame Defarge snorted with laughter.
"Miss? Are you Lady Hermione, miss?"
Hermione was distracted by a squeaky voice and looked down to see two gargantuan eyes peering out of a thin, dirty face at her. The face's owner happened to be a house-elf, dressed in some sort of rag and smelling of food from the kitchens. House-elves always worked the kitchens – it was a place where they would never have to be seen by their masters.
"I am," she said cautiously. "Are you Dobby?"
Dobby nodded with a wide smile. "Dobby will escort you to the facilities, miss, and help you in your mission tonight. Dobby wants to be a free elf, miss."
"I want that for you, too." She returned the house-elf's smile and, just like that, her guilt for this plot had dissipated. How could she feel guilty when she was saving someone? Saving a house-elf. Saving countless Muggleborns. Saving Master Riddle even.
She would make him see that she was worth more than a follower.
Dobby led her to the bathing room then, where she carefully disposed of her tarnished gloves and traded them for the extra pair she had brought in her purse. She smoothed back a haywire curl that had wrestled itself free from a pin. She steeled herself.
I am worth more than a follower and I will be more than that to him, she thought. Or I will not be anything to Master Riddle at all.
She touched the place where a newspaper clipping of Master Riddle - now faded and requiring another Renewal Spell – rested, just above her breast, within the confinements of her slip and corset. And she was ready.
The remainder of the visit passed like a dream. Dobby brought her to supper. She smiled and was agreeable, answering Lord Black's questions, laughing politely at Aunty Bella's stories and paying close attention when the conversation turned to discussion of Mudblood-hunting: a sport quickly augmenting in popularity, in which runaway Mudbloods were rounded up and released in an enclosed forest where Purebloods could hunt them in whatever fashion they saw suit. The contesting Mudbloods were not allowed clothes, so that they better resembled animals and the game could be more authentic.
Lord Black said he had played twice during the weekend and enjoyed it greatly. When Lord Malfoy returned from his mission in Paris, he intended to join him.
Hermione's agreeable smile turned hard on the edges.
Then the second round of beverages were brought out, and pheasant and roasted potatoes replaced their soup. Hermione was careful not to touch her drink. Nerves prickled through her as she watched the others periodically take sips from their own goblets.
Bellatrix excused herself with several apologies; she had a migraine and was feeling slightly dizzy. Perhaps she should lie down…
The witch stood and two servants came forward to escort her away, but in the next moment Bellatrix had swooned and collapsed onto the floor. Lady Black gasped. Someone fan Lady Lestrange, quickly, and call a Healer. Lord Black yawned loudly and Lady Black was affronted, embarrassed her husband had behaved so rudely and hastily crafting apologies to Hermione – but then Lord Black was face-first in his slice of pheasant, snoring loudly, and Lady Black's eyes flickered with sleep before she slid right out of her chair, landing on the ground in a heap of pearls and silk.
Sleeping Draught.
The servants surrounding Hermione, all at once, scattered. There was shouting and running and pieces of silver and objets d'art were snatched off mantels and shoved in bags. Maids ripped off their aprons and caps, leaving them where they dropped, and in a daze, Hermione stood and followed the screaming procession into the hall where they jetted down in masses.
She was shocked to see at least fifty house-elves marching with all of the Muggleborns, although one rather ugly house-elf was beating his fists and clinging to the portrait of Lady Black I, who screamed incessantly at the help abandoning her noble house.
"Fools! Cowards! Get back here, you imbeciles. None of you will escape the wrath of the Noble House of Black!"
"Come now, Kreacher," Dobby coaxed, trying to pry the ugly house-elf's knobby hands free from the gilded frame. Kreacher hissed at him while Lady Black I went on hollering death threats. "It's time to go. We don't have to stay here anymore."
"Kreacher wants to stay," Kreacher snarled in a ribbet-like voice that reminded Hermione of a frog suffering from strep at once. "Kreacher will stay with the Blacks!"
Dobby looked to Hermione helplessly. "He will not come with us."
"The hell he won't." Tonks suddenly emerged out of the streaming pattern of black and white uniforms, which was significantly smaller as more ex-servants poured out of the front doors. Her hair was bright pink once again and she was – bogglingly – wearing gentleman's trousers. "What's the problem, Kreacher?" she demanded. "You're holding us up."
"Kreacher won't go!" the stubborn house-elf croaked. He was now sobbing. "Kreacher stays with the Blacks!"
Tonks sighed. "They've brainwashed him. Help me, Lady Hermione, will you?"
"Oh, um, alright," she said, startled.
"Here, just take his other arm," Tonks instructed and counted to three, on which they both heaved the writhing house-elf off of Lady Black I – the portrait, meanwhile, was yelling shrilly into their eardrums like an enraged banshee – and Stunned him. Dobby thanked them and ushered Kreacher away, he and another house-elf named Winky dragging the house-elf's immobile form between them by the frozen arms.
"Well then, off we go," Tonks announced and grabbed Hermione's wrist, diving into the crowd. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she was shoved around, bumped, jostled and struggled past. It was a mad house.
The frigid air had dropped to single digits outside now that it was nighttime. Hermione reopened her eyes and was relieved to see a sight somewhat more orderly than the chaos she had just escaped. Groups of Muggleborns and house-elves stood amongst the snow, rubbing themselves for warmth, conversing anxiously and awaiting further instruction.
She saw a head of messy black hair in the fray.
"Harry?" Hermione murmured, half-stepping forward. She stopped when she saw Harry Potter's head turn, his green eyes covered by specs once more and sparkling at a red-haired maid that flew into his arms. They kissed passionately and she flushed, looking away from their intimate reunion – it would be wrong to intrude on them.
Tonks stepped up, putting her hands around her mouth. "ORDER, ORDER!" she boomed. No one paid her any mind, however, and she grumbled an oath, pointing her wand at her neck and casting a Sonorus.
"I said shut your traps!"
Everyone went silent.
Tonks winked at Hermione, smiling , who had failed to repossess her cloak, wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "Alright, everyone. Stay calm, stay calm. Mad-Eye Moody and Remus Lupin – yes, those wizards right there-" Tonks pointed and everyone, including Hermione, looked around to see two wizards standing side-by-side in the very back. One appeared to have a wooden leg.
"-they are here to help us. They'll cast wards to make sure your former owners (if their magically-induced sleep wares off sooner than anticipated) do not leave this property before you do. SILENCE! Thank you. Now, to make this as painless as possible I will need five neat, single-file lines with as little talking as possible. Make sure you have your belongings and that all children are with their parents or an adult. Hold hands; travelling by Portkey can get tricky…" Tonks saw Remus Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody approaching and, with a quick hand-motion, gestured for Hermione to go to them. "OK, stay in your groups – STAY IN YOUR GROUPS! – and I will come around to assign you to your designated Portkey-"
Tonks continued to shout instructions at the confused Muggleborns, and Hermione neared Remus and Mad-Eye Moody, who stopped walking when they saw her coming. She came to a halt before them.
"Lady Hermione?" the wizard with the wooden leg and a googly, electric-blue eyeball said gruffly.
She nodded meekly.
"Good meeting you." He shoved out a hand, as Tonks had done earlier, and – like earlier – she shook it awkwardly. The other wizard, who she presumed to be Remus, didn't offer her his. "Come with us, we're to take you to your carriage before setting the Muddling Wards, my lady."
"What are Muddling Wards?" she asked while they guided her away, the sound of hundreds of voices and Tonks' enhanced vocal chords fading behind them. Mad-Eye Moody chortled at this particular comment, and even Remus cracked a grin.
"Exactly what they sound like, my lady," said Mad-Eye Moody. "Until eight o'clock in the morning tomorrow, when the Blacks wake up they'll have absolutely no desire to leave their little palace. And if they do, they'll find themselves changing their minds very quickly and, well, getting muddled."
"Oh." She found herself relieved that it was not something more dangerous.
"Here you are, my lady," Mad-Eye Moody proclaimed, stopping them at the coach. The moon was not present tonight, nor were the stars, and the dark sky above them lay blank as a newly-stretched canvas. "I'll go find your driver and you can be on your way."
"Thank you, ah, Mr. Moody," she said. He nodded and trudged away, limping as he went.
As soon as Mad-Eye Moody was out of sight, Remus turned on her.
"What the devil are you playing at here?" he barked.
Hermione jumped, frightened and stunned by the man's ferocity. He leered at her, eyes dark and hateful. A long, scaly scar rippled from his right temple all the way down to the opposite corner of his face, making his right eye slightly smaller than the other and setting his mouth in a permanent, deformed scowl. She did not know how she hadn't noticed his grisly appearance before.
"I don't know what you mean," she said tremulously. Inside the gloves, her hands started to tremble. She fisted them.
A sharp snarl ripped out of the hostile wizard's throat and she stumbled back in surprise, smacking into the hard wood back of the carriage and jostling it. "Don't try and fool me, girl," Remus snapped. "I've seen enough things to tell the good apart from the evil. And you look an awful lot like the latter."
Hermione frowned, looking down at herself, at her fine dress and elbow-length gloves and clutch. And for the first time she saw what others were seeing. She saw a teenage witch in extravagant clothes, with a flower in her hair and a masquerade mask. She saw girlishness – no, foolishness. Wealth.
She saw a Pureblood.
Remus glared at her out of his scarred face, growling warily. "Even if you actually weren't like those other rich brats, even if you did care about this…" He bared his teeth. "You're not ready for it. I don't understand why He recruited you, but you're not made for this. You're too soft. I'm surprised you didn't destroy this entire operation." She blinked. "You should get out of this while you can, because you're going to get hurt. You'll see things that can't be forgotten."
"Mr. Lupin…"
"Save your pithy apologies, little girl." Remus turned sharply on his foot, and stalked off. Hermione watched him go, stunned, and she was further surprised to feel a righteous anger boil under her skin at the sight of his back, and – without any conscious decision whatsoever – she suddenly heard her own voice call out: "Wait just one moment!"
There must have been something impressive in her tone, because the wizard stopped and half-turned, sneering at her. She felt her cheeks go hot under his glower – but the blush was not out of embarrassment, it was out of...indignity. "Firstly, my name is not 'little girl'," she said sharply. "And you're correct. I am both soft and rich. However, I'm not going anywhere. Others have gotten hurt – many others – and I'm not going to sit back and watch that happen any longer, not for the sake of saving myself. Not for anything. I'm a part of this." She took a deep breath. "I'm…sorry if you cannot find it in yourself to accept that – but quite frankly, your opinion of me really isn't my primary concern."
He stared at her.
Mad-Eye Moody and the chauffer arrived, and Lady Hermione was helped into the carriage and suddenly watching the House of Black shrink in the distance as the cobblestone road tossed and turned under their wheels, while the night swallowed all but snow-entrenching earth and pride and sorrow and vindication mixed within her, the most bittersweet of all elixirs. She closed her eyes.
In seconds she was fast asleep.
Malfoy Manor, England
three days later
The funeral procession had been a morbid affair, as well as the burial. All of it passed like a dream.
Lord Malfoy was permitted by Dumbledore to return early from Paris and attend, but he did not stay for long. He did not touch Narcissa, who had lost her sister to poison and watched wordlessly as dirt was piled onto Bellatrix Lestrange's coffin. She placed a single red poppy at her sister's tomb. Draco consoled her.
Halfway through the event, Lord Malfoy pulled Hermione aside and gave her a present – a silver comb with her name engraved on the shining surface, in a box with a bow on it – and he said her aunt had loved her. He'd be returning permanently in three days' time. Dumbledore would not assign him travelling duties any longer. Then he left her to greet their guests.
Hermione looked up and found two wizards watching her.
The first was Master Riddle and he touched his lips to a glass of red wine, as he stealthily held it up her: a congratulations.
The second was her brother. He glowered at her out of bloodshot eyes and left without a word. His abrupt departure would be a scandal, surely.
I'm sorry, Draco. She could never say the words out loud. Not to him, she couldn't. It was family or Master Riddle. It was the past or the future. Ignorance or intelligence. Oppression or…freedom.
But it was not a hard choice to make.
Under the mask, she wept.
"I don't understand. What does Lord Malfoy have to do with any of this?"
"He is a core member of Dumbledore's Court," Master Riddle explained. "With Rodolphus and Bellatrix out of the way, we must strike him next – but not directly. Dumbledore is expecting another attack and all his followers are on-guard since the success at the Blacks. There is a columnist, Rita Skeeter, who works for the Daily Prophet and will cover the story. I need only evidence of Lord Malfoy's secret."
"But I don't know what his secret is, Master Riddle."
"You must," he persisted. "There has to be something. Everyone knows he is hiding something here in the manor."
"Everyone?" said Hermione, frowning.
"Everyone in Knockturn Alley," he amended, distracted. "We only need to weaken your father's reputation, to-"
"Destroy my family name," she finished. She sat down, heavy with so many secrets – so heavy she felt she might burst at any moment, like a water-logged grape. "But why? I understand that the Court has to be eventually eliminated so you can get to Dumbledore, but then you would have had me get rid of the Blacks too, wouldn't you? But you only gave them Sleeping Potions. Bellatrix and Rodolphus, however, had to die." She studied him. "You are keeping things from me, Master Riddle."
"It is not necessary that you know everything."
"What is necessary does not apply here," she defied, balling her fists. "I am Hermione. Your Hermione, who…has affections for you. You should be able to confide in me."
"I don't have to do anything," Master Riddle spat.
"You're acting like a child."
He sneered at her. "You are nothing but a child."
His cruel words made their intended mark and Hermione flinched back, stung. Master Riddle's scowl slowly disappeared. "You ask too many questions," he said quietly. "Sometimes, I forget how sharp you are."
She took a deep breath. "You said you would tell me about yourself one day. Can that day be today?"
"No. Not yet."
Her disappointment was visible.
"Hermione, I need you not to question me," Master Riddle said, kneeling before her and taking her trembly hands in his. "Look at me." Reluctantly, she did. "I have my reasons, my Hermione. I promise."
She bit her lip. "But you will not tell me them?"
He shook his head.
"Not today, but perhaps…later?" she queried.
"Perhaps."
She smiled at him slightly – the smile was crooked and endearing – and he could not help returning it. "Go fetch the Invisibility Cloak," he bid, rising. "You are going to attend your very first meeting tonight."
"Meeting?" she said, surprised. Her eyes narrowed. "Of the resistance?"
"Yes."
"Alright." She was nervous, but also curious. And curiosity always conquered all else. "I will be back in a moment."
"No, meet me in the parlor," he said. "We'll go by Floo Network."
She nodded.
Half an hour later, she and Master Riddle were spewed out one-by-one by the yawning mouth of a marble place, and onto a vast floor. Master Riddle landed on his feet, like a graceful cat. She sprawled onto the grate and ripped her dress like a blind baby giant.
"Are you alright?" Master Riddle said in surprise, though he was biting back a smile as he helped her up. She batted his hands away.
"Yes, I'm just fine," she said waspishly. His obvious amusement at her slip grated her.
Hermione fiddled with her meddled skirts – the crinoline was ruined now – and once finished, she observed the massive hall they stood inside. Dark wood floors that might have been made of onyx rather than mahogany stretched out on all sides of the vast center, and they themselves presently stood in the center of an enormous circle of gilded fireplaces all connected to the Floo Network. Paneled wood walls and a faded blue ceiling inlaid with golden symbols finished the antiquated grandeur.
Gazing around, Hermione saw a colossal golden fountain no longer in order stood at the very end of the hall. It featured a noble-looking wizard, a beautiful witch, and three stumps where other figures must have stood before. The water in the pool beneath it had run dry.
"The Atrium," Master Riddle said by way of explanation, briskly walking in. Their footsteps clacked and echoed, making it sound as if there were a hundred people there rather than a mere two. "It was once the vestibule of the Ministry, but this place hasn't been inhabited by a soul since Dumbledore pillaged it. It's practically a graveyard now."
She smiled. "And it is your secret hideout now, my Lord?"
Ahead, Master Riddle froze mid-promenade and slowly turned, raising a single brow. "My Lord?" he repeated.
Her smile died fast, giving way to embarrassment. "I…I know your other followers call you that. Don't they?"
"Yes." His mouth had twisted into a frown. Voldemort took pleasure in hearing the others call him my Lord, but when Hermione did it, it was not… it was not the same. Because she was not the same. She was not like the others. "But you shouldn't call me that."
"Why not?" she said, confused.
He almost said Because I don't want you to, but stopped himself in time. That was childish. "Because you said you did not want to be a follower," he finally answered. "So you will not call me by that title."
"But if I'm not a follower, then what am I?" she pushed.
"You're…" He faltered. "You are…"
Hermione stepped close. She stared up at him and gently took his face in her gloved hands, smiling softly. Warmth radiated from her, like there was a small sun balled up inside those plain brown eyes, seeping light through her veins. "I am what?" she murmured.
"More." His brow furrowed. He searched for better words – and reverted to formality by default. "You're…. you are my Hermione, as I've said before, Lady-"
"Are you still indecisive?" she questioned. Hoping against reason. Hoping without logic. Always hoping.
"Yes."
She frowned.
"But I care for you," he said seriously, relaxing. He seemed to sink into her touch. "I care for you very much."
"I…" She could not say it with his black eyes gazing into hers. I love you. Not when her heart was beating so hard, so fast. Not when he was still so unsure of his feelings for her. "I care for you too," she finally whispered. Taking the easy way out.
The soft swooshes of more arrivals made them break apart. Hermione looked up to see two figures approaching. Master Riddle told her to stay behind him at all times, and that if they were to be pulled away from each other, to use the Invisibility Cloak now tucked inside her purse. For safety measures. She nodded.
The first wizards to arrive at the meeting were Mundungus and Kingsley, who she had not heard of before and both wore heavy black cloaks. Mundungus was apparently an infamous thief. Kingsley typically directed rescue missions. Then Tonks came, with Remus Lupin at her side and Mad-Eye Moody following close behind. Tonks had green hair the color of grass in spring and waved at her after rising from a sloppy curtsy. She waved back.
Midway through the arrivals, however, Hermione found herself looking for Harry Potter to pop out of a roaring bouquet of green flames. She saw Severus Snape sweep in in a flurry of dark cloaks and greasy hair, bending at the waist to Master Riddle before going inside.
Actually, all the followers bowed to him, now that she thought of it. And after enough of them had Flooed in that she was able to realize they were all assembling a large, wide circle, curious stares began to wander over to her. Who was the girl beside their Lord? She was Pureblooded, wasn't she? That's why she has fancy clothes, innit? I know, that's Hermione Malfoy. The daughter of Lord Malfoy? But what's she doing here? Her father's in Dumbledore's Court. We should up her while we've got the chance. He must have something in mind for her, surely…
She tried to ignore the stares and comments, the snickers and acidic glares. Master Riddle saw how pale she'd become and he cast a sharp look about the circle, effectively silencing the derisive laughter.
But the rebels' eyes spoke volumes.
"Hermione, meet Mr. Gregorovitch," Master Riddle introduced, nodding to an old man in a raggedy coat and top hat, who had just popped out of yet another marble fireplace. Gregorovitch smiled at her with yellowed teeth. "He supplied the replica wand of Lady Lestrange and once worked alongside Dumbledore."
"Ha! That was many, many years ago, my Lord," Gregorovitch said, speaking in a thick German accent. "Before Albus turned for the worse."
"'Before'?" she repeated curiously. "Before what?"
Gregorovitch looked surprised by the inquiry and Master Riddle smirked, muttering, "I should have warned you beforehand, Mr. Gregorovitch, but Lady Hermione is very sharp. She is also prone to asking many, many questions…"
At this, Hermione sent him a sharp look, but Gregorovitch did not seem to mind her less-than-flattering description at all. The aged man gave her another lemon-colored smile. "Are you now, my lady?" he said. She blushed, embarrassed. "Well, there's no shame in wits, my dear. No shame at all." And he continued on to his place in the circle, hobbling away.
He had never answered her question.
Hermione thought over Gregorovitch's words when the meeting began, as Master Riddle called all of the gathered rebels to order and discussed their next plan of action. Before Albus turned for the worse. Turned for the worse? But that would imply that Dumbledore had not always been the way he is now. And did Gregorovitch mean mentally, physically, or emotionally? Or did he allude to Dumbledore's political views, to his opinions? Perhaps it was all of that. Perhaps it was none of that at all.
Before.
The word would not leave her alone. What was Dumbledore's 'before'? She did not know. She only knew how Dumbledore's regime began. He defeated Grindelwald, a Dark wizard that was his enemy, and he took over England directly after. He destroyed all relations between their world and the Muggle world. He created harsh laws and fitted them with harsher punishments. He was successful. He was great. He was terrible.
But had anyone ever seen him? Perhaps a long time ago. Now, however, Dumbledore never made appearances. Did Lord Malfoy see him? She had always assumed that her father did – he was Dumbledore's follower, his loyal subject, after all – but when asked after Dumbledore's state Lord Malfoy always gave vague answers. Such as, He is well, I imagine.
I imagine.
He did not know truly though. Hermione pondered this.
…Lord Malfoy hid her in the manor out of greed. Dumbledore hid himself in power for the sake of keeping power. Master Riddle hid his true self from her with sweet promises and – perhaps – even sweeter lies.
Pretenses. They were everywhere suddenly. How was she to ever see the truth?
The most formal part of the meeting had somehow reached its conclusion without her even knowing it, and Hermione lifted her head to see Master Riddle deep in conversation with Severus Snape. Snape had been Draco's Potions professor, but he now served at Dumbledore's Court as a spy. He was their third eye, the last say, the trick up their sleeve.
With Master Riddle preoccupied, she quietly slipped away.
The circle had broken and everyone presently stood conversing in small groups amongst the abandoned Atrium. She found Gregorovitch sitting on the fountain ledge, staring up at the illuminated golden figures thoughtfully.
"Excuse me, Mr. Gregorovitch, but may I join you?" she asked, giving the old man a start.
"Oh, but of course. Surely." And he straightened as much as a rusting spine would allow, gesturing to the empty space of stone beside him. She sat and they stayed there in silence for a moment, listening to the bumbling conversation around them and sound of clacking footsteps. She tried to imagine what this place might have been like sixty years ago.
"There used to be a centaur there," said Gregorovitch suddenly, pointing at the statues towering over them. "And that there was a house-elf, while that one was a – blast, er, what was it? – oh yes, yes! It was a goblin."
"Really?"
He nodded.
There was nothing more to discuss then.
The night would be out soon. Hermione did not know when Gregorovitch planned to make his exit, so she had to act while she could. She had to ask.
"Mr. Gregorovitch," she began, tentatively. "What did you mean by 'before Albus turned for the worse'?"
Gregorovitch grinned. "I was wondering when you'd ask," he said, cracking his bulging knuckles and settling into himself with a heavy sigh. It was the sigh emitted just before a great story was told. "This may surprise you, but Albus and I – although never great friends – were rather close in youth.
"As you know, he attended Hogwarts until graduating. He had a brother, Aberforth, and a sister who was a Squib. I forget her name, but she died in some tragic accident. Accidentally got hit by a spell when Grindelwald (though we called him Gell then) and Dumbledore were dueling. Grindelwald and Dumbledore were very close-"
"They were?" Hermione intervened, surprised. "But weren't they enemies?"
Gregorovitch shook his head. Then he paused. "Well, yes and no. I mean, they were enemies – but they were very good friends first. Both those men had a lot of ambitions. They knew what they wanted in the world from the very start."
"What did they want?" she murmured.
"Power." Gregorovitch peered at the noble wizard statue on the fountain through cracked, skin-webby lids. "All men want power, even women do. Wizards, witches, house-elves, goblins, centaurs, giants – you name it. We all want it. Even if we do not realize it ourselves, we desire power. All of us." He jerked a little, as if awaking from a deep sleep, and his eyes opened wider than before to glimmer at her. "But I'm getting away from my story now! Sorry about that, my lady, I'm very old… yeesh…" He cleared his throat.
"Now, as I was saying, Grindelwald and Dumbledore were very close. But Dumbledore was a Light wizard and Grindelwald fancied the Dark Arts. He even got kicked out of his school for some shifty happenings that linked back to him. And in the end, the two wizards' views clashed horribly. Dumbledore's sister died when she got caught in a nasty duel between the both of them and Gregorovitch fled – he was in enough deep water without murder on his head – and then Dumbledore was left alone, with one less sibling and a new enemy."
"And that's why he hated Grindelwald?"
"…I would not say Dumbledore is a man to hate – not then, at least – and he would have surely held his sister's death against Grindelwald – but like I said, they'd been very close. Imagine, Lady Hermione, the person closest to you suddenly just upping one of your loved ones and taking off. Disappearing without a trace. You would despise them, naturally, but another part of you would be very sad, wouldn't it? And I think, Dumbledore lamented the destruction of his friendship most of all. I believe he always felt sorrow for that."
Hermione mulled over this for a moment, thinking. Finally, she said, "And what made Dumbledore, who was a Light wizard, go…?"
"Dark? Evil?" Gregorovitch guessed. She nodded. "It was the final battle between them. Took place in my homeland Germany, where Grindelwald was taking over and trying to drive out all of the Muggleborns. Grindelwald was the opposite of Dumbledore: he hated all things Muggle viciously. And Dumbledore was trying to stop him, so he went down to Germany and they fought the greatest duel in all of Wizarding history." His eyes grew glossy with memories and he was silent for a short period, lost in thought. "Well, something went wrong out on the field. Grindelwald cast a real nasty curse and Dumbledore didn't act fast enough – he was wounded already and getting weaker – and the spell hit him right in the chest. Sent him flying a good yard over even. We all thought he was as good as done after that, that Grindelwald won."
Hermione was silent, waiting with bated breath for the next piece. In fact, the entire Atrium was silent. Listening to the story.
"Then Dumbledore got up," Gregorovitch said softly. "He stood up and everyone cheered, besides themselves with joy when he finished off Grindelwald. But then… then he did something odd. He turned on us. He said 'Rejoice for the death of Grindelwald and come forward, Mudbloods.' But that wasn't right. Dumbledore just doesn't use words like that. 'Mudbloods.' He said it like we were beneath him and he had a terrible smile on his face, one that gives me chills just…remembering." He shuddered. "Something. Something went wrong out on that field. To this day, I don't know what spell Grindelwald used – but it hit something dark in Dumbledore. It murdered the good inside him. The Dumbledore you know now… he isn't no Dumbledore. He's just a shadow of the real one. The real Dumbledore was a good man."
"Dumbledore is evil," someone said harshly from the depths of the crowd. Several others carried up this cry. "And that's all that matters."
"Everyone is evil," Gregorovitch snapped. He met the eyes of the person who had spoken – Remus Lupin. Tonks stood beside the fierce wizard, her green hair graying with worry as she glanced back and forth between the two men. Gregorovitch sighed heavily. "But everyone is good, as well, Remus."
"And it just so happens that Dumbledore's good died." Remus jerked free from Tonk's hold, striding forward through the throngs until he stood feet away from them. His eyes glowed yellow, like slanted moons, and they threatened to sear Gregorovitch in half by sheer willpower. "What are you defending him for?"
"I'm not defending Dumbledore at all," Gregorovitch said calmly. "I'm only telling a story."
"Keep your stories to yourself, old man," Remus growled.
"Remus!" Tonks scolded, running up to them. "Stop this nonsense-"
"Because I am a werewolf," Remus said loudly, turning to face the entire Atrium. "I am an enemy of the people. Thus, in the name of the great Albus Dumbledore-" Sniggers rippled across the hall. "-I am no more better than the dirt under your shoe there! I am as good as an animal. I should draw carriages. When I transform, my fur should be shaved off me so that it might be used for some Pureblood's-" He glanced at Hermione, who shrank under the force of a hundred glares suddenly leveled on her. "-handsome hat. …So I will not stand here and let you call Dumbledore 'a good man.' Not after what he's done to me, to you, to all of us. He ruined you, Gregorovitch. You used to be rich! And look at you now."
Gregorovitch tutted. This had obviously been a topic they'd argued before. "I do not need to be rich, Remus."
"But you should be able to leave your shop without one of Dumbledore's stuck-up lapdogs laughing at you," Remus fired back. "Neville should be able to see his parents, as should Harry."
"Harry?" Hermione said without meaning to. Remus glowered at her. She asked, "You know Harry Potter?"
"Yes," he said tersely.
"Is he well?"
"Yes." He was frowning at her now. "He is with his fiancé, Miss Ginny Weasley, and has been transferred to a safe house."
She was relieved. Master Riddle must have arranged Harry's lodgings. Harry Potter would be safe.
"Why do you care, Pureblood?" Remus asked, gruffly. She felt herself go red as the entire Atrium awaited her answer.
"I am a friend of Harry's," she finally responded timidly. Someone snorted. "I…I only wanted to know if he was alright."
Remus's frown deepened.
"Come on, Remus, let's go," Tonks said, taking the werewolf-wizard's hand and pulling him away. "Before He catches you starting trouble again…"
"He's a real hothead, that one," Gregorovitch said, scratching behind his hairy ear and casting a glance around at the others, who had dissolved into a mirage of layering prattles now that the show was over. "But he's a good man too. A very good man."
Hermione fiddled with her gloves, which suddenly felt suffocating and uncomfortable. She longed to take them off. She longed to be someone else. "Someone once told me that men are all disappointments," she said quietly.
"A woman in scorn, eh?"
She blinked.
"Well, whoever told you this is probably right and wrong," Gregorovitch said weightily. "But look at it like this: a woman can disappoint just as well as a man can." He pointed up. "And in the eye of God, or Lord Merlin or whomever you believe watches us from above, we're all the same."
"Is that why you're here?" she said. "To prove we're all the same?"
"Nah, I only come for the free brandy." And he clambered to his feet, tipping his hat to her with a "A jolly good night to you, my lady" before he trotted off, whistling.
Hermione grinned. There wasn't a spot of brandy in sight.
I know what it is. She gasped, for with a burst of clarity – she knew what Lord Malfoy's secret was. It had been lying in plain sight all this time… and Gregorovitch had unknowingly just helped her to see it. To see what would destroy her father.
To see what would secure her freedom.
"There you are, Hermione," Master Riddle said from ahead and she turned in surprise. He came toward her and the crowd parted before him like the ocean drifting aside for Moses. But Master Riddle was handsomer than the devil and just as sly – certainly no prophet. "I was wondering where you'd gone off to. Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Yes. Tonight was very…enlightening."
"Gregorovitch got to you then?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"Somehow, I'm not surprised." He nodded at one of the fireplaces circling them. "Are you ready to leave?" he asked, extending a hand she took without a second thought. Every gaze in the Atrium migrated to observe them.
"If you are, Master Riddle," said Hermione. "Then I'd opt to say yes."
Malfoy Manor, England
the following night
Draco dragged his feet as he walked the halls of the third floor. He reeked of his father's wine cellar and he cried like a small child in the privacy of the liquor-stacked room, sobbing and screaming until his wails banged off the walls to come right back into his pounding head. Aunty Bella. Why did you take her? Aunty Bella, Aunty Bella. Mother, please.
But his mother was slipping from him.
The one person who truly cared, who loved him and not his sister, who he held dearest and closest of all was slipping. Spiraling into depression, into the Devil's grip. The Devil poured hard liquor into her glass.
He did not know what he would do if she left him as well.
Then there would be no one left to love him.
His father did not love him. His father only saw her: Lady Perfect with her ribbony hair and church mouse voice, who crocheted blankets for the poor and sat at daddy's feet as they once both did when they were children. It had always been a competition between them, battling for attentions. Unconscious on her part; entirely active on his.
The difference was, he lost the war the minute mother gave birth to that wench.
Speak of the devil and she shall appear. Ah, and there she was! strolling down the hall in a black mourning dress and wearing an emerald amulet daddy probably bought for ten thousand and some Galleons. Draco raised his hackles, preparing a nasty comment on her wardrobe or study habits, but he stopped when he saw Hermione knock on a door. Wasn't that the music room?
Snatching himself into the shadows, he watched silently as the door opened from the other side. Who the devil was in there? Better yet, who was Lady Perfect seeing when she should be in her room crying herself into dizzy spells? He edged closer, listening, and an annoying giggle reached his ears. He rolled his eyes.
Then he heard it.
Tom.
"…shut the door…discuss…Hermione…" There were only snippets of conversation, but undoubtedly his schoolmate's voice. The door closed, cutting off any other words, and Draco scrambled down to it, shoving his ear against the wood. He didn't hear a thing.
"Bloody wards," he cursed, pulling back. Anger burned his chest. How dare she? That slut.
First, she stole their father, and now she was to take his friends as well? And worse, she had the audacity to laugh when their beloved aunt had died from a horrible Mudblood attack just a week ago? To laugh when he – he was beside himself with grief and their mother drank herself into stupors with spirits?
Crucio. The Mudbloods had writhed when he cast the curse on them. She could writhe, too.
Or…
Or he could ruin her. Yes. He could tell, he could tattle, he could knock Lady Perfect off her pedestal finally. Oh yes. Oh yes.
He only had to wait for the perfect moment.
AN: Oh no, Draco, what are you up to now? *Satan tuts*
So I know this chapter was quite a bit to take in, but I figured it would make up for the whole month absence thing (gah, sorry about that). Thanks for reading and please share your thoughts below...
Kisses,
ImmortalObsession