Eleven
Tom Riddle was not happy. He was convinced, now more than ever, that the world was composed of idiots. After arriving at Hogwarts for his surprise visit, he had been less than pleased with the state of the affairs there. From what he had secretly observed (after brushing off Lupin, he'd taken the opportunity to observe the state of his affairs). McGonagall had far too much control, and even Snape appeared to be slacking. He had been gone too long, had allowed his followers too much freedom. He had miscalculated their ambitions, their greed.
How was he to reveal his true identity, his true purpose, to the world if his control over his Death Eaters was still tenuous? There could not be even the slightest question of their loyalty; he could not risk failure.
No, something would have to change. He would have to address the issue during the meeting later that night. He hadn't told anyone of his arrival or planned meeting. Let them be surprised. Let them wonder what he was planning, let them obsess over his motives. Let them feel the fear that lingered, cold, dangerous, and shadowed their every move.
His lips thinned in a triumphant, savage smile, and the movement of his fingers mirrored the dangerous, off-kilter slash of his mouth, his eyes, his wrists -
The brush clattered to the ground, sweeping one last, desperate swirl of scarlet against the mass of teeming hands pressing down on a small, rough rendering of a woman's face {gaunt, pale, pathetic} -
Deprimo.
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The train ride back to London was largely uneventful. A bored teenager sat next to her two stops in and promptly fell asleep, so at least Hermione didn't have to worry about keeping up aimless chatter.
When she returned to her flat, she set her bags down with a sigh, gazing at the empty space. She wandered over to her kitchen, running her hands lightly over her practical linoleum countertop, and paused at the blinking light on her phone. Someone had called her just two hours before. Who could it have been? Harry and Ginny would have called her mobile, and she couldn't think of anyone else who had her home phone number.
Hermione pressed the flashing button, pursing her lips when McLaggen's snide voice slid from the machine.
"Hey, Hermione, just wanted to let you know that the charity art auction is actually a day earlier than I previously said...I blame the organisers; they really should have made the date clear. Do they think merely emailing twice is sufficient? They should have called, sent letters, given daily reminders! Anyway, I'll pick you up at six. Wear something nice! No bulky sweaters this time!"
The machine beeped.
Hermione scowled. Glared at the phone. Kicked her counter.
Leave it to McLaggen to make a dreadful event even more awful. How had he even gotten her number? She allowed herself one last exasperated sigh (and a muttered curse or two) before picking up the phone, glancing at the small cat clock (a present from Ginny) mounted on the wall as she dialed.
She had roughly three hours to dress and, more importantly, mentally affirm that she would not kill McLaggen today. Hopefully.
"Hello?" came a curious, pleasant voice.
"It's Hermione. I need your help...can you bring Cho too, actually?" Hermione said, frustration seeping through her clipped words.
Ginny paused.
"Er...this doesn't have anything to do with your Riddle research, does it?" she asked slowly.
"No. McLaggen," Hermione bit out.
More silence. Then -
"On my way."
"Thanks, Ginny," Hermione said.
She placed the phone back on the countertop and turned with another heavy sigh, looking at her unpacked bag forlornly. She'd already made a plan for the day; she would have unpacked. Picked up more of that delicious pumpkin juice. Gone to the library. Researched the Hallows. Solved this infuriatingly (and delightfully, if she was being honest) complex mystery.
Well, there was no use dwelling on could haves and should haves. Hermione strode briskly to her bag, flinging the wrinkled clothes behind her bed. She extracted the precious file with more care, placing it on her desk for future study. She stared down at the file's innocently bare surface, her brow furrowing. What exactly were the Hallows? She'd never heard of them, and Hermione Granger prided herself on being more well-versed than the average person (and the above-average person, if she was feeling terribly self-important).
"Hallows, Hallows, Hallows," she muttered, pulling a hand through her tangled hair. Perhaps it was some sort of gang symbol? Bryce had seemed terrified when he'd seen the seemingly simple symbol. Or perhaps it was a sort of communications device; perhaps the interlocking triangle, circle, and line meant cease. Or go. Or -
It could mean anything, really. Hermione frowned, her eyes narrowing. She'd have to investigate; had Harry even noticed the symbol? It was buried underneath dozens of sketches; she thought the possibility of anyone noticing it was slim to none.
Someone knocked on the door, and Hermione hurried to open it. A worried looking Ginny accompanied a solemn looking Cho.
"What's wrong?" Ginny asked, peering inside the flat. Hermione moved aside, allowing the duo to enter her flat.
"I have to go with McLaggen to a charity art auction so I can contact Slughorn about the whole Riddle business. The prat moved it up a day, and I have no idea how to go about getting ready for it. What does one even wear to an art auction?" Hermione scowled, shutting the door with more force than she'd intended to.
Cho's eyes slid from the door to Hermione. "The poor door," she remarked dryly.
Hermione shrugged.
"I don't have time to waste shoving myself into a dress for McLaggen," she complained, gesturing vaguely in the file's direction.
Ginny held up a finger. "No, you are not wearing a dress for McLaggen," she said sternly.
"You," the finger rose to jab at Hermione's chest, "are wearing a dress for you."
Hermione blinked. She hadn't thought about it that way. Ginny nodded briskly, clapping her hands together and looking eerily like her mother.
"Now, I have a dress I wore to a Ministry event a year ago that could work. I'll be right back," she said. Then she was gone, yanking the door open and closed behind her.
"The poor door," Cho repeated. Then she smiled. "As tempted as I am to make you look like a clown so McLaggen will pee his pants, I doubt Slughorn would talk to anyone wearing that much white face makeup," she said ruefully.
Hermione grinned, shaking her head.
"Sorry, tempting, but I don't have a clown costume," she said. Her eyes drifted to the window, where the first, fat drops of what promised to be another long London rain fell to the grey pavement.
"Er, how's the library going?" Hermione asked finally, casually studying the wooden grain of her desk.
Cho snorted. "If you're asking if your friend is there, no. He's not. He must be away or something."
Warmth spread across Hermione's cheeks, and she protested weakly, "I wasn't asking about that! Can't I take an interest in your work?"
Cho eyed her meaningfully, and Hermione sighed, dropping the matter.
Ginny barged in again, carefully holding an emerald green dress above the ground.
"I found it!" she announced. She threw it in Hermione's direction, and she barely managed to catch the slippery swathes of fabric.
"Now," Ginny said severely, "we work."
An hour passed in a flurry of colourful chiffon and laughs. She learned that Cho had an eye for colour ("I've had plenty of practice; besides, I took six years of abstract art in Hogwarts") and that Ginny could eat more chocolate than even Hermione.
When the hectic prodding and brushing finally slowed, Hermione propped her bare feet against her dresser, sliding another truffle carefully between her scarlet lips (the colour, while different, made Hermione feel dangerous, like she could burn the world to ashes with a simple curve of her lips; she rather liked the feeling).
Her eyes slid back to the file, and she turned to Ginny.
"Do you know if Harry's around?" she asked.
Ginny shook her head. "No, he's out investigating some missing wolves; why?"
"Oh, it can wait. I discovered some new developments in Little Hangleton and thought he ought to know," she explained.
Ginny nodded. "I'll let him know, then. He probably won't get home until late tonight, and when that happens all he wants i-"
Hermione changed the subject quickly.
"Ginny, have you had much contact with McLaggen at any football events?"
She made a face. "Yes. Unfortunately. He's a decent player, but he's a terrible sport. He sulks for ages after a loss."
Then she shook her head, her red locks slipping from her ponytail. "You just have to survive an evening's worth of him. Imagine what his mother had to go through."
Hermione grinned, smoothing the rippling fabric of Ginny's dress absent-mindedly. The dress was gorgeous; it boasted floating, airy dark green material with a low neckline that would normally make her balk. It was breathtaking and elegant, and Hermione thought it almost made up for her future companion.
She plucked another truffle from the box, reciting absently,
"When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?"
Cho blinked, her lips pursing in concentration. "Eliot, no?" she said finally. Hermione nodded eagerly, her eyes brightening and the chocolate falling, forgotten, from her fingers.
"Yes! 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.' The dress is beautiful, Ginny, thank you, but the auction made me think of his stark...well, wryness, for lack of a better word. Of course, I can't say that I've been to enough events to be quite so tired of it all, but I can relate," she said.
Ginny tilted her head. "Have you considered teaching English?" she asked.
Hermione blinked. "No, I can't say I have," she said faintly. And why hadn't she? It fit well, now that she considered it. She loved poetry, loved dissecting the words, loved discussing various interpretations with anyone who would listen {perhaps with some more than others; dark eyes and high cheeks flashed fleetingly through her mind}.
She thought back to the barren, mindless days of alphabetising traffic tickets. She thought of her schooldays, full of hope and endless eagerness. She thought of poetry, of poems that made her heart ache and her fingers tremble. She thought of Jude, thought of the intellectual bliss she could achieve just by discussing (arguing) the material.
She thought of Hermione Granger and who Hermione Granger was and how Hermione Granger had changed.
"Hermione?" Cho prompted softly.
Hermione snapped back to attention, offering a small, grateful smile. "Perhaps - perhaps I can contact McGonagall about starting off as a teaching assistant," she said.
Twin grins appeared on her friends' faces, and Hermione soon found herself sandwiched between two cheering women.
When they parted, the clock showed that it was a quarter past six. Hermione suppressed a groan. She stood carefully, making sure not to trod on the delicate chiffon.
"Trust McLaggen to be late," she remarked dryly. Cho rolled her eyes.
"What a pompous g-"
Someone rapped sharply on the door. The dread that had been slowly collecting in the pit of Hermione's stomach surged at the sound. Grabbing her trusty beaded bag from the counter, she gave Cho and Ginny one last longing look before opening the door.
"Hello, McLaggen," she said wearily.
McLaggen stared at her, his mouth dropping open. She stared right back, though her gaze was more of defensive distance than appraisal.
"Good, you'll do," he said finally.
Hermione resisted the urge to smack him with her bag. "Thank you. Now, shall we?"
He nodded, and with a final shut of the door they were off.
McLaggen, predictably, spent the entire cab ride bragging about his recent victories. Hermione barely paid attention, nodding at random intervals to at least appear interested (she'd never understood football; why bother cheering when the sport housed corruption and encouraged people like McLaggen?).
By the time the green car finally pulled to a stop outside of the gallery, Hermione was pushing thoughts of strangling certain football players out of her mind. McLaggen was not worth going to jail - or worse, Azkaban - over.
He slid from the car in a haze of overly strong cologne, sweeping her door open with an exaggerated flourish. The waiting paparazzi captured the moment eagerly, blinding Hermione with a near constant barrage of searing white lights. She scowled, bringing a hand up to shield her face.
McLaggen gripped her arm tightly, rooting her against his body as he lingered by the line of cameras. She fidgeted, her smile becoming more and more strained until she gave up and merely frowned into the distance.
When he'd finally satisfied himself, he bent low, whispering, "You get used to it, after a while. It honestly gets a bit tiring. Dozens of fans want to take photos with me everyday. I'd bet they'd just collapse if they didn't get their pictures; it's a sacrifice, sure, but I've never been one to ignore the pleas of my people."
Hermione nodded stiffly, keeping her eyes glued on the marble ground below her black heels. Just keep walking. Just keep walking. Do not kill McLaggen. Do not hit McLaggen. Do not even look at McLaggen, Hermione Granger.
A simpering man dressed in a white tuxedo ushered them into a grand room filled with elegant black wooden chairs. She surveyed the packed room quickly, searching for Slughorn's signature velvet suit or Dumbledore's eccentric robes.
Nothing. The sea of wealthy buyers was overwhelming, and she distractedly sat down in the third row next to McLaggen.
"I'm hoping to get an Erte," he said flippantly, but his words were lost in the booming announcement that came from the front of the room.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the seventeenth annual Charity Art Auction. Together, we can provide loving employment for hundreds of disadvantaged children!"
As the audience roared its approval, her eyes flashed to the familiar, tall man speaking at the podium.
Malfoy?
The blonde continued speaking smoothly, empty self-congratulatory remarks spilling from his lips. Hermione tilted her head, studying him curiously. After her graduation, she hadn't given much thought to his plans; was he firmly rooted in the art community now? Perhaps she could ask him if he knew anything about Riddle.
"Now, item #1 is a stunning form in charcoal. Toujours Pur by the renowned artist Bellatrix. Starting bid at 4,000 pounds…"
The bids began, hurling thick and fast through the air. Small, delicate glasses of champagne passed generously through gloved hands. Hermione gaped at the numbers, swallowing hard when the price jumped from 5,000 to a mind-boggling 15,000 pounds in the span of only a minute.
"Wow," she breathed. McLaggen snorted. "That's nothing. I heard rumours that there'd be a Riddle - wait until you hear the bids for that," he said pompously.
Hermione froze. "A - a Riddle?"
McLaggen downed the contents of his champagne glass in one go before saying distractedly, "Yeah, I already said that. Hey, are you going to finish that?"
Hermione wordlessly relinquished what was left of her champagne.
Bellatrix's work - a rather...graphic charcoal piece - ended up selling for forty thousand pounds to a portly man in a tweed suit.
Malfoy sealed the deal with a firm rap of his polished mahogany gavel. Then he announced the next piece, and the process began once more.
Hermione's mind whirled with the overwhelming barrage of sculptures, photography, and art being displayed in rapid succession. The gallery bubbled with cheerful chatter as the art was sold one by one. She spotted a few pieces that she liked (one precise oil piece by a retired painter named Grindelwald) and some she didn't (one crude pencil piece by a novice artist named Pettigrew; that one sold for only fifty pounds).
Malfoy rapped the podium, and the crowd slowly quieted.
"We have one more piece to be sold," he began. A solemn man emerged from a side door, carefully carrying a small, rectangular object covered in a thick white silk. He placed it on the display table before slipping out the way he came.
Malfoy strode over, resting his hand carefully on the folds of fabric.
Excited murmurs rose around Hermione, and an elegant woman dressed in black whispered, "This is it! This must be the Riddle!" to her equally elegant companion.
Malfoy waited, smirking slightly as the eager whispers rose. He was clearly relishing the attention, Hermione noted wryly, but she had to admit that she was equally intrigued.
Malfoy ran a hand over the frame, deliberately curling his fingers over the corner.
"This," he said clearly, confidently, "is the Riddle."
His fingers twitched, stilled, and -
Unveiled.
Author Note: Thank you all so much for reading/reviewing/etc! :D As always, all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter. My writing/personal tumblr url is the same as my penname c;
Guest Review Replies
Ann O'Maley - ! omg you are seriously (siriusly) so kind. I am honored (? and maybe sorry?) to have kept you from your sleep :O ALSO I HAVE NO REGRETS FOR CONVERTING YOU TO TOMIONE NO REGRETS AT ALL
Luois - thank you! i'm so glad you like it :D
