Kingdom.6

Lord Voldemort was confused, an emotion he did not experience often.

He had been entirely uncertain why he suddenly found himself in a forest clearing that looked like it had been the recipient of a rather messy blasting hex. He'd been even more perplexed to see the woman clutching his hand. He was quite certain he'd never seen her before, not that he would have paid much attention to her; she was rather plain, and short, and dressed in a ridiculous scarlet balloon of a dress, but there was something in her brown eyes - desperation, yes, but not fear. That had angered him, and he'd reached for his wand to punish her insolence. Only, his wand was not at his side, and the loss made him stiffen with rage.

Then, he'd noticed the power coursing between their joined hands, and that had been more perplexing still. The feeling had been euphoric, as great a high as he'd ever experienced, and he had the sudden urge to press his other hand against the woman's arm, annoying as she might be. He'd been about to do just that when a full squadron of bloody horses and, in the most bizarre twist of all, he saw two faces he'd seen only in paintings - Godric Gryffindor and Salazar bloody Slytherin.

"Well, fuck," he said, and the bushy-haired woman gave him a sharp look, like he'd said something entirely surprising. Riddle had never been stupid, or slow, or anything short of clever. Anyway, it hadn't taken a genius to know when to shut up and observe. So, he'd allowed the knights to separate them, and the loss of the woman's touch had been a visceral blow. That, of course, had incensed him, for when had he ever depended on another for anything? But Slytherin himself had drawn him away, and he'd known enough to be wary of the founder's suspicious gaze and pointed questions.

The rest of the day had been even curiouser; people referred to him as Prince Thomas or 'Your Majesty.' He did not mind the submission, of course, but he felt adrift, a dozen questions going unanswered through his mind. He'd spent the better part of the day evading questions and fending off any suspicions with a charming smile, an art he'd perfected at Hogwarts. It was simple enough to fool the servants and only mildly tricky to fend off the nobility. Slytherin, however, was an entirely different matter; he'd caught the man staring at him several times, and his attention made Riddle uneasy.

There'd been no talk of magic at all; the Slytherin court cast not the smallest of spells, and he spotted not a single wand. Unsettlingly, the oil paintings were unmoving, and his casual inquiries about how charming and bewitching the castle was were met only with stricken looks.

Then, he'd remembered. He'd remembered being in 1949, of confronting Nephele and being reduced to a fool by her voice. He wasn't sure how she'd made her voice so hypnotic. He'd never heard of such a spell or potion, and he doubted he'd find answers in the drivel found in Gryffindor's library. He frowned at that thought, hand touching his temple. Although he knew who he was, that he was Lord Voldemort, he still caught snippets from a different person - Prince Thomas. Or, rather, snippets of her, for his only snatches of memory revolved around the bushy-haired woman.

Lady Hermione Granger, apparently. Prince Thomas had been intrigued by her; fascinated, even. Riddle hated knowing his thoughts, of knowing this person who was him but not him at the same time. Prince Thomas had pursued her into the forest. He'd seen the scar on her collarbone and known, even in his ignorance, that it was special, that it meant something.

That it matched the rune on his own back. He flinched at that thought, remembering the pain of Nephele's attack. The witch had stabbed him with that knife - the Razaran. No, it had been more than a crude stabbing; she'd dragged the Razaran across his flesh, carving a rune into his back.

A rune that, he suspected, was responsible for his current situation. If this woman had a rune, perhaps she had also been touched by the Razaran. Could Nephele - could the Razaran - be in this world? He'd heard rumours of the Razaran's power to split worlds, had hoped to use it to seek further avenues of immortality, but he'd never thought it would be turned against him. Never thought that he would be on the receiving end of its bloodlust.

Riddle was not the sort of person to panic easily, but even he could feel the strain of the day wearing on him. He'd suffered through the insipid dinner and Gryffindor's even more insipid speech. The thought of a world without magic was terrifying; he was sure he could amass influence even without magic, especially as he already seemed to be in the position to inherit not one but two major kingdoms, but it was hard to be content with a life as a muggle when he knew he'd once been capable of greatness. Of magic.

His only solace was the sight of the trees, reduced to smoking splinters in the forest. He doubted explosives existed in this world, so the destruction could only have been the work of a Confringo. He knew magic, knew its signs. The woman had cast the hex, even without a wand. There were no magical texts here, no wizarding schools, which meant that this woman was from his own world. He frowned, another of Prince Thomas's - or his own? He could hardly tell the difference - memories making itself known; the very first time he'd seen her, he'd noted her hateful glare. It had surprised him; his looks were as effective here as they had been in his own time, and he was used to people looking at him with admiration or, after they experienced his might, fear.

Although he couldn't access the remainder of Prince Thomas's memories, he didn't think they'd have had occasion to meet; no, he distinctly remembered being introduced to the woman. He doubted this non-magical version of himself could have accomplished much or garnered enough infamy to warrant such a venomous greeting; after all, Godric was willing to marry off his heiress to him. No, her animosity was further evidence suggesting she, too, was a witch from his world. Only - he hadn't yet introduced Lord Voldemort to the world. How could she know to fear his face? Even more curiously, she'd looked to be around his age, early to mid-twenties. He'd known everyone at Hogwarts, had kept tabs on all possible allies and enemies and all those in between, but he didn't know her.

And, through all these questions, Riddle felt the yearning in his chest to experience that same euphoria, that same power, and he shuddered with disgust. Still, he had questions, and he was tired of smiling prettily. It was time to get some answers.

So, he slid from his room and, following Prince Thomas's dim memory, went in search of the witch.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hermione Granger dreamed of burning.

Her bound wrists burned behind her as she shouted, helplessly, at a sky like an old bruise, mottled reds and purples and yellows weeping above her. All around her, a faceless crowd watched as the flames began to proceed hungrily up the pyre.

Help me, she pleaded, and they watched.

She screamed in frustration, shouting a dozen spells into the air. None worked. Smoke, thick and black, filled her throat, and she choked.

Witch, came a whisper, agonizingly seductive. Dimly, she named it - Crowe.

Witch, the crowd echoed.

Witch, she breathed, eyes wide. The fire roared, stopping mere centimeters from her bare feet. Paused. And progressed.

She screamed.

She woke to water. She spluttered, choking, as the water poured on her face. The torrent relented, and she let out a shuddering breath. She blinked, eyes smarting, and struggled to place herself. She was in a lavishly decorated room, and her wrists were bound behind her to the wooden chair. Panic summoned bile to her lips as she remembered her encounter with Riddle.

Stupefy, he'd said.

She'd been right; he was different, changed. Something had transformed him from monarch to wizard - a terrifying thought. She didn't understand the mechanisms behind her transport to this world, didn't understand why Riddle, of all people, seemed to have received the same fate. Had the shadowy figure also carved the same mark in Riddle? The man had opposed Crowe; whatever they had been, they were not allies.

Riddle stepped closer, looking down at her. She was sure he was enjoying this, of knowing that she was at his mercy. If she was to die, she was certainly not going to make it easy. Still, curiousity stayed her hand; perhaps this new Riddle knew something of use.

Perhaps she could feign ignorance in the hopes that he would let something slip. "Your Majesty," she croaked, blinking in bewilderment. "Why have you taken me to your bedroom?"

Riddle's expression did not change. "Don't insult me, Hermione Granger," he said. "You and I both know who we are and where we belong."

Where we belong. The phrase sent a shiver down Hermione's back. So it was true; this Riddle was her Riddle, as loathe as she was to claim any form of possession to the monster. She cast her mind back, trying to think of what could have caused this switch. She was certain the Riddle she'd interacted with the previous days had no knowledge of magic. It wasn't until today, in the clearing, that she'd glimpsed the first instances of Voldemort.

What had she done? They'd touched, but they'd touched before without incident. Could it have been the attack? She'd never seen or heard of the shadowy beings before, so it was possible that they could have somehow triggered the switch. Had Lord Voldemort's memories always been dormant in Prince Thomas's mind, just waiting to be awakened, or had they somehow been summoned?

His eyes were fixed on her exposed collarbone, and she shifted, uncomfortable under their pressure. She'd touched his rune, she realised with a start. Although she hadn't felt anything noteworthy, she supposed that contact could also have been responsible for Voldemort's awakening. There was so much she did not understand about runes, about this knife, whatever it was, and her ignorance made her let out a frustrated groan.

Riddle paid no mind; instead, he said, "Your rune is slightly different. How did you get it?"

She winced, remembering the pain. "Involuntarily," she said, and his mouth thinned. His hand edged towards his shoulder; he didn't seem to notice its movement.

"We have that in common," he said, and she blinked, surprised. With anyone else, she would have assumed the wound was involuntary, but she suspected Voldemort was willing to do almost anything to secure power. Who had managed to best him? And why, she wondered, had that not meant the end of Voldemort entirely? Riddle looked startlingly, disarmingly young; she doubted he was any older than twenty-four, twenty-five at most. The Voldemort she, Harry and Ron had faced had been far older.

"Who did this to you?" she asked.

"A foolish woman," he said. "A dead woman." His voice was so quiet, so sure that she shivered again.

"Mine was done by a man," she said. "I suppose it could have been the same person under Polyjuice, or they could have been working together."

Riddle frowned in thought. "So," he said, "we are from both from the wizarding world. Both from 1949."

Here, she made an involuntary sound, and he looked at her sharply. She schooled her expression to stillness, but it was too late. His mouth curved into a self-satisfied smile, and she raged at him silently. "Same world, different time," he mused. "You clearly know my face, but I don't know yours. A future acquaintance, perhaps?"

She wasn't going to give him anything more. She stared at him unflinchingly and his eyes darkened. Before she could react, he lunged forward, gripping her bare shoulders. She flinched at the contact, eyes going wide at the hundreds of glittering strands now visible all around them. She hadn't had time to give them much thought, hadn't had the time to notice how, as Riddle moved, they moved around him. She shifted her ankle experimentally through a violet strand and, when it passed through her leg without effect, frowned. Another mystery.

Riddle's hold tightened, and she let out a cry. His hand was at her mouth in an instant, and she bit back another yell. It was in both of their interests not to attract the attention of the guards. She could only imagine what they would make of the situation. Sure, she might be momentarily saved if they were Godric's men, but if they were Salazar's…

Best to leave that thought unfinished.

"Now," Riddle said. He was breathing heavily, and she knew he was feeling the effects of their contact as much as she was, "these runes must be why we can only cast our magic when together. Granger, we are in a unique position; I resent your presence, and you clearly do not like me, but you seem reasonable enough. We have a common desire, and we both stand to benefit from figuring out why, and how, we came here."

She glared at him. His hand was still tight around her jaw; how could she respond? He lifted his hand, giving her a warning look; he clearly remembered being spat on. Good. "You're a king, here, or soon to be one, anyway. I'd have thought you'd enjoy being the ruler of everything."

He gave her another condescending look. Oh, how she wanted to blast the smirk from his face. "You know just as well as I do why I can't survive here, Granger," he said. "I won't be reliant on you to experience magic. And I will not live as a muggle - king or no."

His words were reminiscent of her earlier thoughts, and she hated him for it. She wanted nothing to do with the man, and yet…

Hermione Granger was not a fool. She was not the sort to allow her ego get in the way of the best solution, the only solution, and so, swallowing her pride, she stared Riddle straight in the eyes. "Fine," she spat. "But untie me."

When he arched a brow, she added, "You're not going to kill me, and I'm not going to kill you; you're not going to risk losing access to magic, and who knows if the runes will still work if one of us is dead? You said it yourself; we need each other."

His lip curled. "I didn't say we needed each other."

"But we do," she interjected, and she persevered despite his glare. If they'd been in any other situation, she knew she'd be dead, or the subject of the Cruciatus at the very least, but they were here, and she was feeling brave. Then, if only to prove her point, she said, "Relashio."

Again, there was a delay; performing magic was harder, here, even with Riddle's touch. Soon, however, the ropes around her wrists loosened, and she held up her freed hands. Riddle, thankfully, didn't curse her. He didn't move away, and their proximity made her nervous. Selfishly, she had no desire to break their contact, either, and so they stayed, two enemies locked in silent battle.

It took the crumbling of the walls themselves for them to part.

Author note: thanks so much for reading and reviewing - all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter! shoutout to infernalbooks, guest, michxxg, wizarding, adi6123, and isileetandem for reviewing :)