Thirteen
The next day, Hermione returned to the library. Jude was still absent from his usual spot (not that she was looking for him; she just happened to notice the empty spot as any observant person would). She pulled census data from the dusty back corner of the library and searched for information on Tom Riddle Sr., but the records were frustratingly sparse. Little Hangleton, it appeared, had less than stellar data.
Deciding to concede a (temporary) defeat, Hermione shifted her focus to Riddle's childhood. With Cho's help, she found a record of all the orphanages in London and the surrounding areas. She already knew that Tom Riddle had grown up in a London area orphanage before getting discovered at age fifteen. The only question was which orphanage and, for that matter, why that orphanage hadn't named itself once Riddle had gotten famous. You'd think housing a world famous artist would be something to be advertised, after all.
In fact, a lot of things didn't make logical sense. How could such a famous artist have such a shrouded past? Sure, she hadn't known of his existence until the show, but that was because she had had no prior interest in the art world. Besides, from what she'd gathered from her research, everyone in the art world - and most outside the art world - knew of him.
She paused, resting her quill against her chin as her eyes narrowed. It was rather odd - assuming the Riddles in Little Hangleton were her Riddle's (she'd started referring to the artist Riddle as her Riddle, which was admittedly absurd but no one had to know) relatives, why was he left to grow up in an orphanage?
Hermione dotted the last, neat period on her list before snapping the book shut. She hunched over the table, blowing on the parchment in an attempt to make the ink dry faster (the action brought a fresh wave of nostalgia; how many late nights had she stayed in the Gryffindor common room impatiently waiting for her ink to dry?).
She glanced at the austere grandfather clock tucked in the corner near the phone books and nodded in satisfaction. She still had around four hours until her meeting with Bellatrix; that was plenty of time to cross off at least some of the orphanages on her list.
Hermione tucked the parchment into her worn bag, tiptoeing through the silent library and waving to Cho on her way out.
She walked the block over to the public payphone, feeding coins into the machine as she dialed the first number on her list. She leaned against the cool brick wall behind her, idly watching the early morning shoppers as they strolled past the expansive park across from the library.
"Alice's Orphanage," came a cheerful, young-sounding voice.
"Hi, my name is Hermione Granger. I'm researching an artist, Tom Riddle, for a project. He grew up in a London orphanage, and I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction."
"Hm, Tom Riddle, you said?"
"Yes."
"And this is for an academic project or…?"
"Er, personal interest, I suppose. I saw an exhibit at the museum and couldn't resist pursuing it."
"Oh, I saw that exhibit! It was wonderful - a bit dark, but wonderful. Here, for a fellow art lover, I'll check our records." the girl said.
"Brilliant, thank you."
A grainy recording of a piano piece filtered through the phone. After a few moments the woman returned.
"Ms. Granger? Hi. My manager just told me I can't release the records - something about confidentiality and liability - but-" here her voice lowered conspiratorially "-I'd suggest looking elsewhere. My friend Chris at the Diddleton's Orphanage for Boys might know. He knows just about everything."
Hermione thanked her and placed the phone back on the receiver. Splaying the parchment against the plastic box, she crossed off the first orphanage from her list. Well, only eight more to go.
Fishing another coin from her bag, she dialed the number for Diddleton's Orphanage (it was the next one on her list, anyway). Chris, an equally cheerful young man, directed her to Elizabeth at Mabel's Home, who then directed her to Peter at, bizarrely enough, an apothecary.
Peter, after several long minutes of asserting that, no, she was not from the government, reluctantly told her to try Wool's Orphanage.
Hermione frowned, glancing down at her list. All nine orphanages were already crossed off with increasingly aggressive lines (she was not the most patient of people).
"Wool's Orphanage? But that's not on my list of London orphanages," she said.
Peter sighed heavily. "That's because it was closed down years ago. I don't know if the building's even there anymore."
"Closed down? Do you know why?" Hermione asked, her curiousity piqued.
"No. I only know because I passed it on the way to the barber's when I was young. Anyway, do you want the address or not?"
"Yes, please," Hermione said politely.
He rattled off an address, placing the orphanage in an industrial area of London. As luck would have it, the orphanage was very close to the art gallery where Hermione was supposed to meet Bellatrix later that afternoon.
Hermione thanked him profusely before hanging up. The sun was fairly high in the sky, now, and the crowds had thickened as people streamed in and out of the park. Hermione grabbed her bag and parchment and, without pausing to stretch her aching muscles, ran to the street and hailed one of the bright green cabs parked at the corner.
After greeting the driver, Hermione settled back against the plushy leather seat and watched as the lush green park gradually gave way to solemn grey buildings.
If she was lucky, the orphanage would be there and someone would know who she could contact for help. If she wasn't, she'd have to start from square one again.
Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, but if it did, she could always return to Slughorn and badger him. The professor definitely knew something; his reaction had been far too exaggerated, far too uncomfortable. Besides, if she'd learned anything from her days of discovering Harry and Ron's haphazard plots, the person with something to hide always fled. Always.
The cab slid to a stop on a deserted road. She paid the driver and exited the car, looking up and down the cobbled road. Tall office buildings lined each side, and the brick facades looked relatively new. She bit back a sigh of disappointment, instead focusing on locating the address.
12...14...16.
There. She stopped at the last building on the block, a squat, plain looking building that featured the same architectural style as the rest of the buildings.
QUILL PUBLISHING read the simple white lettering above the metal double doors.
Hermione groaned, crumpling the parchment in her hand.
Another bust. Disappointment settled deep in her stomach, sending tears of frustration to her eyes. She blinked them away furiously, marching up to the double doors determinedly. So the building was demolished; she'd faced worse obstacles.
She lifted her hand and rapped on the metal, her eyes narrowing at the "CLOSED FOR THE DAY" sign hung in the window adjacent to the small doorway.
Dropping her bag to her feet, she carefully made her way to the corner of the cement, peering into the dusty window. She could just make out a dimly lit hallway and a sign for a girls' lavatory, but that was it.
She groaned again, her fingers curling tightly around the grimy window sill. She could return the next day, but she'd already wasted half the day on this endeavour, and she hated returning with nothing to show for it. Well, there was no use wallowing in self pity; she'd had enough of that.
She made her way back to the front doors, stooping to retrieve her bag.
"Hermione?" called a raspy, low voice.
She turned, her eyes widening when she saw familiar hooded eyes and wild black hair.
"Bellatrix!" she greeted, moving to join the artist on the sidewalk. "I was just about to head out to meet you."
The woman didn't respond, her dark eyes flicking momentarily to the building behind Hermione.
"Oh, I was just exploring a possible lead," Hermione explained, a hint of nerves sending her voice rising an octave. She winced at the sound, but luckily Bellatrix didn't seem to have noticed.
Bellatrix regarded her for another long moment before smiling (that was the problem, Hermione noted distantly; only her mouth moved when she smiled. Bellatrix's eyes still glinted with a fevered pitch that hinted at something other than benign friendliness), tilting her head slightly to the left.
"Ah, yes. I just remembered - I forgot the files back at the restaurant. I'll meet you at the gallery; you go ahead," she ordered. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, striding away purposefully.
Hermione stared after her retreating back before shaking her head. Adjusting her grip on her bag, she set off towards the gallery. She'd never heard of this particular gallery - Borgin and Burkes - but she had heard of its location; Knockturn Alley. The small area of London was notorious for its dangerous streets and less than legal activities.
Perhaps it was her prior knowledge tainting her perceptions, but the area did seemed rather seedy. The streets grew even narrower, empty avenues becoming empty alleyways. The buildings seemed to grow closer, gripping tightly to each other as they loomed over the cobbled streets.
The few people she passed stared suspiciously at her, clutching packages ranging from an armload of peacock feathers to a snowy white owl.
When she finally spotted the bronze lettering announcing the gallery, Hermione almost sighed in relief; her pace quickening, she nimbly dodged a hulking man asking if she knew of the latest government conspiracy.
Hermione kept her eyes firmly fixed on the dark wooden door, her fingers gradually tightening their grip on her bag as the man followed her the few paces left to the entrance.
"Oi!" he finally called, his voice frighteningly close (how had he approached her so quickly? Just the other moment he had been across the street).
She automatically turned, her eyes widening as the man - middle-aged, pale, hairy - slapped a thick hand around her mouth and pulled her harshly into a side alleyway.
For a moment, Hermione froze, her famous mind - the mind that she had prided herself on, the mind that had gotten her voted 'Most Likely to Succeed,' the mind that had chained her to her bed in the weeks following the incident - blank. The man pushed her roughly forward, his sharp nails catching on her skin.
Her head collided with the shadow-draped brick wall, sending a jolt through her body. Finally she regained control of her body and she bit down hard.
The man cursed loudly but didn't loosen his hold. He pushed her forward again, sending her head slamming once more into the grimy brick.
She whimpered, tears springing to her eyes as something warm began sliding down her forehead. What was she doing? What was he doing? Had she even told anyone where she was going?
She hadn't, she realized with a pang. Harry, Ginny, and Cho knew nothing. She'd planned on telling them only if the encounter with Bellatrix was fruitful - Bellatrix! Surely the artist would return to the gallery soon and see that she wasn't there.
She struggled to catch a better glimpse of her captor through the mixture of tears and blood that mingled near her eyes but failed, seeing only inky shadow.
He kept a vise-like grip around her mouth and hands. How could this even be happening? She'd dropped her bag long ago, yet he didn't seem interested in it, which only lead her to believe that he was after her personally. She was no one; why was he targeting her?
His arms tightened around her mouth and nose, and her eyes widened; he was trying to suffocate her. She clawed weakly at his hands, dropping to the ground in an attempt to dislodge him.
She dimly spotted a black car in the distance, and a new surge of panic left acrid bile in her throat. She bit down, hard, on her tongue, tasting blood as she willed herself to think of a plan. If she got into that car, she would be dead - that she knew with cold certainty.
She paused for a moment, struggling to think through the growing fog that was waiting, hungrily, at the corners of her mind. She could not pass out. She would not pass out.
She gathered her remaining will and, without warning, let her body go limp, gravity pulling her weight down abruptly. The man stumbled for a brief second as she pulled him forward. That was all she needed; she wrenched her mouth from his hands and screamed, wrenching sounds she didn't know humans were even capable of from her throat.
The sound echoed through the narrow alleyway, and the man cursed lowly, slamming her head forward once more and slapping his hand to her mouth.
The fog was nearer, now. It ate at rational thought, whispering of sweet, sweet sleep and wouldn't she like to escape the horrors of consciousness?
She was vaguely aware of a second, answering yell, loud and sharp. The hands tightened around her mouth, and she dimly felt herself being wrenched to the side as her assailant turned.
She struggled to retain consciousness, desperately clinging to her senses as her eyes fluttered open and shut, limiting her view of the scene to agonizingly short snippets.
"What are you doing?" she thought she heard someone demand. The voice was coldly flat, menace dripping from each syllable.
The hands loosened abruptly {slamming to the ground: possibility of concussion}.
She heard low, furious speech that blurred together in the fog that danced, tauntingly, at the edges of her vision.
Then the ground, startlingly close {darkened dirt: head wounds bleed excessively}.
Then two gleaming black shoes and one voice, cursing angrily {smooth, rough: an enigma}.
Then nothing {silence: a blessing}.
Author Note: Thanks so much for reading! As always, all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter c;
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