I.
Perhaps it is only a matter of time until they finally catch up to the one of the con artists, but no one in Hermione's team expected to find her within two days of finding Vex. It is Hermione who manages to find her at the corner between a Muggle drugstore and an emergency medical clinic. She is conning the Muggles out of their money using a trick card game that mixes a little bit of betting into it. Hermione is able to recognize Fiona—the old flame Vex mentioned. She has the exact red hair and the homely brown eyes he describes. It helps that he sat with a sketch artist just an hour ago.
It also helps that Hermione was paying attention to Glasgow's police scanner. The con artist was reported by a concerned doctor working at the medical clinic.
d'Arcy and Hermione put up Anti-Apparition Wards and wait for Fiona to panic when she realizes she can't escape the angry Muggles who were ripped off. Glasgow's police officers haul her towards their cruiser, and it is that moment—right before she could step over the wards—when Hermione shows her badge at the officers.
"Excuse me."
The officer nods. "Alright. You can have her." He uncuffs Fiona and pushes her towards Hermione and d'Arcy. "You will be going with them."
It takes only a moment for d'Arcy to cast the Anti-Muggle Ward around this area so the three women could finally have Apparate back towards the Auror Office, so they can finally interrogate Fiona for more information.
II.
Unsurprisingly, it is Tom Riddle who will be asking questions in the white interrogation room. There are splats of coffee and tea all over the floor that will never wash out, and the room smells faintly of cinnamon and reeks of Muggle chemicals for a bizarre reason. Beneath his head, there is a one-way glass. The other side has his colleagues listening into every word and sentence he says to her and everything she says to him.
She smiles seductively at him. "Hello. Who are you?"
Inwardly, he smirks. Outwardly, he gives her a simple nod and leans closer to her than necessary. He can already hear d'Arcy choking in shock about inappropriate behavior—but he can hardly give a damn. He tells her, "Fiona." Her name rolls off his tongue with all the right syllables and just enough of a temptation for her. He can play this game.
"Yes?"
"I have a problem. You see. . ." His head tilts to the side, and he gives her an intense look—which causes her to furiously blush. ". . .there is a bad man out there."
"Uh-huh." She watches his every micro-expression and micro-movement, her jaw dropping slightly. "Yes."
His eyes close a little, and he practically purrs out her name. "Fiona, I want a favor."
Stunned by his every move, she nods without even understanding his words. She blurts out, "Whatever you want. Whenever you want." Bits of pleasure crosses her mind and thoughts as she dreams the most tempting of thoughts.
Hook.
"Your boyfriend." His eyes land on hers.
Flashes of her con artist/partner crosses her mind. He smirks, pleased to be right on track. So the con artist is her beau. That is good. He picks up his face, memorizing the tanned lines and the dirty hair that always covers his eyes.
"I want him."
Even dirtier thoughts run across her mind.
"Tell me how to find him."
Moving underneath a spell he cast, she stands up and slips around the table separating him and her. Knowing that d'Arcy is most definitely fainting due to a countless number of broken interrogation rules, he amuses himself with those images all while Fiona whispers her precious secrets into his ear for his approval.
When she is done, she looks at him with a bright eagerness.
"You will be rewarded," he murmurs, lies dripping from his mouth and seduction and temptation all wrapped into his words. Her words echo around in his head as he analyze the more important information to be passed onto his colleagues. "Thank you. Fiona." Her name is hissed—and she doesn't recognize the snake in front of her.
III.
She isn't sure whether or not if his charms are coming back or if they have always been there. But they are scary—and so, so tempting and beautiful and organic and realistic and heartrending and. . . She can go on and on about the way he acts, and that is when Hermione realizes that he really is dangerous. Not because of his knowledge in the Dark Arts, but because of his hold over people. He truly could become a politician, do something worse than Hitler, and still manage to gain the love of everyone and everybody around him.
Heather Chase, a mousy young Auror who used to part of Inverness Squad, remarks, "Hermione, he sounds just like sex!" She quickly covers her mouth when she catches the disapproving gaze of one Auror Sondra d'Arcy.
She checks her clock while she watches Fiona hovering over Tom with lust-filled eyes. He doesn't seem to mind—nor wish to beat her off by the stick.
He has only been in there for three minutes, and she is already melting in front of him and giving away every bit of her soul to the true devil in the interrogation room—and she doesn't realize it. Perhaps the difference between Fiona and Hermione is that only Hermione knows who he truly is—and Fiona was totally unprepared for him in the first place.
That thought does not bode well with her.
The day Tom Riddle decides to take over the world is the day everyone is doomed. No one—maybe not even her—would be prepared for that day.
IV.
Cards. Playing cards without magic. In an underground casino.
Fiona's information is correct, and he is pleased to be under the impressed eye of one Auror d'Arcy. Though he has stepped and blurred the line of breaking the interrogation rules, he has gained her respect and admiration.
Of course, he would graciously and modestly throw off all compliments.
He might even be a team leader by the end of the year at this rate, if he keeps up the "good work" as d'Arcy calls it. Harry Potter is one of the highest ranking official in the Auror Office after six years of being an employee.
As he sets down his card and wins a few galleons, he wonders if he could beat Mr. Potter's record. He may be good, but now that Tom Riddle is whole once again and powerful and hidden, he is better. Far better.
"Congratulations, sir," says the dealer. "You're up six hundred galleons."
Tom smiles as his opponent slinks away—defeated thoroughly with a healthy dose of humiliation. He only needs to be cursed and hexed a few times to make it even more complete. But he'll settle for public humiliation. For now.
V.
Dressed in a shiny purple dress with sparkly pink heels, Hermione is not having a good day. It's one thing dressing like a party girl, but it is another thing to act like one. She reeks of Firewhiskey, and a faux dazed look lingers in her eyes as she casually and excitedly wander around while she openly ogles at wizards and witches playing cards. Occasionally, she'll flirt—a lot—while keeping an eye on Riddle. Heather is also playing drunk party girl—but at the north exit.
There. She finds a leather jacket man on the prowl towards Tom. That is Fiona's boyfriend and con artist partner. The physical descriptions—bald, smells like ginseng, oily grey hair, and slimy in looks and personality—matches. In short steps due to her four-inch tall heels, Hermione follows him and watches him sit down at Riddle's poker table.
Now, this is going to be interesting.
She strolls over to a nearby table and give moony eyes at a distracted poker player while his opponent casually takes a peek at his cards.
"High roller?" says Fiona's boyfriend, Shane.
"I wouldn't know. It depends on how high I go."
A pause.
Shane asks, "Tell me. What's your secret? What makes you so good at poker?" He chuckles. "I play cards, and I can't keep my money in my pockets."
Planting down a few cards, Riddle answers, "I'm not a fool to reveal all of my cards. Or my hands. I think you would understand that."
The boyfriend laughs. "Trade secrets."
"Do you run this place?"
"Yes. I own it. Do you like it?" Shane laughs again. "It's a beauty, isn't she?"
A pause. "Well, I might. But there's a problem, you see, Shane Hardinge."
Hermione's eyes widen. Her hands slowly move towards her legs—towards her holster. She needs to be ready to stun Shane.
"How do you know my name?" he inquires warily, backing away slowly.
"Wel. . . Remember your question? Why am I so good at poker? It helps that I have certain charms that prevent me from losing in a very unfair way. Such as when a certain underground casino is trying to leech off my galleons by encouraging my eyes to be fooled by lookalike cards. Or perhaps when cards are added to make me lose. Or perhaps. . ."
Hermione quickly glances.
Bugger. Tom already has his wand out.
Casually as if he is only reading a shopping list, Tom announces, "Shane Hardinge, you are under arrest for running an illegal casino that is not registered with the official Ministry of Magic's—"
He runs for it.
At the same time, two jets of blue light hits him in the back.
She glares at Tom as the teams of Aurors begin to gather witnesses everywhere. In the middle of the chaos, she yells, "You were—"
"I did all the right procedures," he tells her, flashing her a grin. "Instead of wasting another four hours of waiting around to poke the suspect for questions, I asked him outright. You're welcome." With long and graceful strides that reek of smug satisfaction and a sense of superiority, he strolls away from her and completely ignore the storm around him.
VI.
Another case closed. Hermione's boss—Elliot Quinn—is impressed, and Sondra d'Arcy is finally pulled from her team along with Dallas. The other two senior Aurors will be staying until the end of the year—or so Quinn says. It doesn't matter, though. Two less babysitters are off her list and her team, and they can't run interference on her ever again. She is closer to being an actual Auror team leader than a Auror trainee who is playing captain on a ship.
But it irks Hermione that d'Arcy has nothing but praise and admiration for Tom. Only a footnote warns of his tendency to skirt the rules for interrogation.
No one reads footnotes. Except for her. Except for those who pay attention.
No one is paying attention to him.
Trapped, isolated, and powerless than ever before, Tom Riddle still remains alive even when stuck underneath the devil's thumb. Even though she is mostly horrified by how manipulative and conniving and cunning he is with his hands stuck in a block of concrete, she holds a candle of admiration and pure wonder and curiosity for him. He may have captured two con artist today, but he is the biggest con artist of all.
VII.
He comes home by midnight. Pulling off his robes, he strips down to his black briefs and moves over to his desk for work and potions and such. He leans down, eyeing a piece of bezoar he has cut this morning. New ideas and inventions don't come out of nowhere. They come from experimentation, and potion supplies and equipment for experiments are one of the few things he bought first as soon as he received his paycheck. Casually brushing away stray bits of his hair away from his eyes, he slowly dips it into the steamy, milk-white potion in the pewter cauldron.
Then he lets it go, his eyes analyzing the potion carefully.
He is no Snape—the Potion Master—but he is very good nevertheless.
The potion turns into a bright color of grass green, and he nearly smiles—but too soon. The potion bubbles once. Then twice. Then faster and faster and faster as it begins eating away the cauldron with vigor. He watches with horror as he sees the potion going to rubbish.
He waves his wand, and the potion disappears—but not without some damage to the cauldron. He huffs at the singed edges and the nasty cracks forming along the sides. He will have to buy a new one tomorrow. He knows that without a doubt.
Rubbing his forehead with thought, he opens a black journal, grabs a quill, and writes: Experiment #152, brief success for approx. 7 seconds before degrading. Nearly exploded. Pewter cauldron cracked and partially destroyed. Will replace tomorrow. Perhaps I shouldn't include bezoar at all? Or maybe a trace amount?
He throws his journal off to the side and stares off to the distance—sulking. The potion could be used as an excellent weapon, but that isn't his intention.
His mind begins to wander off, and he eventually comes to the subject of Hermione Granger. Oh, what should he do with her? There are duties he must due. . .
But it would be far better if he could be free of her.
He leans back and purses his lips. Exactly what could he do to her? He has a clear mindset of how to gain power subtly through the ranks of the Auror Office. He knows how to connect himself with politicians and influential members of the Wizarding World. But Hermione Granger? She is an annoyance, who is calling on him whenever she is in a great amount of danger—
Speaking of danger, his head is now being torn apart due to her again.
He stands up, grumbling, and slips on a black robe. Must she call at this late hour? He feels like her little guard dog—and no one, no one will keep Lord Voldemort on a chain for long without his will, his want, and his consent.
The day he breaks from the devil's sentence is the day he holds the match over the world to start a forest fire that will remake the world.
He has a list of where to start.
Thrasher.
The devil.
Harry Potter.
His followers who have abandoned him.
And finally, after she has watched the world burn, he will end her. Hermione Granger. He is going to hurt her for every single time she has called him to her side. A cruel smirks forms on his mouth. He can almost taste his revenge as he Apparate away.
VIII.
This is a terrible area to live in, she realizes for the tenth time. She is not poor by any means, but she knows that she has to save money so she could finally buy an actual place for herself. After moving out of the apartment, she starts anew in a Wizarding community tucked between two Muggle communities. The only problem is that that small little town in Edinburgh has a nasty street war involving two gangs fighting for control. It has been the local authorities' problems for months, and she decided to rent the place just to torture Tom a little more.
That is until she found out how loud it was at night. Not even all the sound-related charms she casts on her home and the general area of her loft could cancel out the noise of fighting, screaming, shouting from various problems in the neighborhood. For example, she doesn't want to know about the domestic abuse happening above her loft. Calling the local Magical Law Enforcement Patrol officers didn't do jack. They merely twiddled their thumbs until she threated them with a report. Then they half-hearted—only half-hearted without trying for any change—try to convince the couple to take their grievances to a counselor. From that moment on, she has discovered that Belberry is a really bad town.
In Inverness, there are no such problems as gang wars, extreme domestic violence, murders, mobs. . . Belberry—the community—is a battlefield and no one should be living here.
Not even the fifth time of trying to get authorities to take action does anything for the town as a whole. After reporting about the dead body next to the front gate and questioning why the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol's local office wouldn't do anything, the officer sheepishly looked at Hermione and finally admitted, "The local office is swamped with cases. The department itself gave up on Belberry and crossed it off as a lost cause. Belberry is too extreme and spits out anyone who tries to make a difference. The only thing Belberry responds to is violence and force. Even then. . . It's hard to make a real change around here."
She is especially not amused when someone has casted a Reductor Curse against her wards on the entire complex while screaming about lost magical mushrooms the wizard "knows is hiding in there." She is especially not amused when said wizard starts attempting to tear down the entire building's foundation to find the drugs.
When she hears the fourteenth Reductor Curse being cast, she has enough and leaves the boiling potion unattended for a moment to give the wizard a piece of her mind. She lets the spoon stir for the required hour. Picking up her wand, she Apparate to the edge of her wards.
A sudden chill sends her shivering, but her eyes widen at the wizard who is shouting the curse over and over again with white foam in his mouth. He reminds her of a rabid dog, and when he spies her, he screams, "Delanie! Let me in! I need those mushrooms!"
Delanie is Hermione's batshit crazy neighbor on the fifth floor. Only thirty-seven years old, she also happens to be passed out in the lobby due to the countless shots of Firewhiskey she has drank—or at least, that is what Hermione has seen two hours ago. She probably still is there. Drunk people—especially when they are that drunk—don't tend to move around. Hollering out towards Delanie's acquaintance, she raises her hands to cup her mouth. "She is not here! Get the heck out of here!"
"Delanie! Don't be like that, baby! I know I was wrong in a lot of ways, but I promise you that I'll never bother you again if I get those mushrooms!" The wizard falls to his knees, moving to the edge of the ward and bowing down to Hermione. "Please, please! He's going to kill me."
Months ago, Hermione might have actually helped him. But it is the present time, and she is not in the mood to deal with this. She has a Dark Lord who is power-hungry and inching towards/planning something devious, and she doesn't need to get in the middle of this bloke's problems. She has learned too brutally that people in this town tend to be either really, really bad characters or be on the leash of those bad characters. As the only Auror in this area, she does not want to cross anyone without a backup team of Aurors. She may be impulsive, and she may be self-righteous at times, but she technically doesn't have any jurisdiction here. Nor is she suicidal. She has seen too many dead bodies within the months she has been here. Sneak. That is the word written on their bloody, dead torsos.
One gang alone outnumbers her by one to six hundred.
Not suicidal.
The only plan she has for herself is to keep her nose clean and her head down until she can figure out a way to quietly remove the leaders of the gang without the town disappearing into a full-on battlefield with dead bodies at every corner. The town is too prone to violence, and it is too easy for someone to replace the leaders. She needs to figure out a way to stop all of their income, their business, and their ways.
"Sir, you need to leave the premise!" she screams back.
"Let me in! Let me in! Find those mushrooms, Delanie!"
Then comes a few dark figures in the sky. Her heart sinks, when she recognizes the symbols on the back of their jackets. Holding her wand even tighter, she slips into the shadows behind the tree and prepare herself to witness something truly horrifying.
The Falcons gang control the north side of the community, not right in the area she lives in. It means that they are deliberately infringing on the Panthers' ground—and if any Panther member catch them, it is a full-on war. She closes her eyes in a wince and mentally beg the universe that she has not just seen that. The wizard casting curses at the ward is bad enough. But giving the gangs incentive to fight? That is far worse.
One Falcon gangster kicks the side of the wizard without mercy. He pulls out a crooked wand and huskily remarks, "Greaser, you still owe us those mushrooms. You never paid up."
She groans. Greaser is one of those bad characters. And one on the leash. She stares at the tanned man underneath the foot of the Falcon gangster with something close to pity. Pulling out her wand, she carefully listens for more information.
Greaser chokes out, "I. . . I'm sorry."
The gangster kicks him again while his buddies laugh. "Not good enough. You see, Greaser, we need those mushrooms. Otherwise, we don't got much of anything. Apologizes aren't enough. You should know." He points his wand, gesturing. "You said that to me once. Remember? I was about yea high"—he lowers his hand to his hip—"and just a tiny kid. And when I stepped on your broomstick, I tried to apologize. What did I say?"
A pause.
The gangster steps on him, his feet on his neck. "Tell me, Greaser. Tell me. Tell me! What did I say to you? Don't you remember? Don't you remember?"
Hermione sighs. Great. A gangster who is out for blood and a torture session. That is even worse. She is sure it can't get any worse until she sees several streaks in the sky and several men with a lounging Panther on the back of his jacket fly by. They send off bright jets of light towards the gangsters, screaming about territory.
Greaser takes advantage of the chaos to run down the street and Apparate to safety while the Falcons and the Panthers pair off against each other. Panthers, on brooms. Falcons, on the streets and huddling behind trees and such for cover.
She has thought too soon. It could get even worse.
Stepping over the ward, she raises her wand towards the sky and screams, "Bombarda!" The sound of the explosion in midair rocks the entire neighborhood. The two gangs stop their fighting briefly to examine the new player. Without missing a beat, she waves her wand around to summon trash cans to take various Dark curses that are too dangerous to stop with a simple Shield Charm. Moving towards the tree provides some protection, but she is still out in the open.
One of the Falcons sends a bright green curse at her, which is then wiped away by a passing trash can. A Panther fires another curse from behind, and she narrows her eyes as she simply moves aside to let the curse fly into another Panther in front of her. The man gasps sharply, clutches his stomach, and promptly throws up some odd orange, chunky fluid.
Great. She has to get involved in a three-way fight.
Gritting her teeth, she concentrates as she manipulates various trash cans and objects to fly around in the air and to chase various gangsters. Lights flash by her, spells whiz by, and she gnash her teeth even tighter together. Where is Tom Riddle when she actually wants him?
Never mind. She will bloody solve this problem herself. She has lived without him. She is living with him. But she doesn't need him.
"Lady! Get your nose out of our business! You are on our turf!" screams by a passing gangster flying overhead, firing a hex at her head.
The Stinging Hex manages to skim part of her shoulder, blood drips down onto her lovely white blouse, and she snarls in anger. She has to end this. Before anyone else gets hurt or dies.
She raises her wand up in pure rage.
She has an Aging Potion to finish.
She opens her mouth to pronounce the incantation.
They ruined her blouse. The one Ron got for her the one time he didn't forget her birthday. The only one that wasn't ruined by her job at some point or another.
The trash cans fall towards the ground.
And she has a freaking Dark Lord leashed to her. Who has somehow came back and is getting better over her even though she has anticipated the fact that he might try to grab power.
So yeah, she is having a fairly bad day.
And she wants this to be over. Now.
"Fiendfyre!" she whispers softly. So soft no one can hear.
Flames in the shape of a raging lion fly in the air, snapping angrily at the gangsters. Some of them even try summoning water to no avail. The sheer heat of the dangerous magical fire makes beads of sweat form on her back, but she continuously feeds it with a steady stream of her magic and forces her will on it. It is a dangerous spell for a reason. Few can actually manage the amount of strength and control to actually force the spell to do its master's bidding.
The lion duplicates and nips the back of some broomsticks. The broomsticks quickly catch on fire, and she casts, "Arresto momentum!" Their fall slows, and ropes quickly wrap around the frightened gangsters.
She narrows her eyes at the rest of them escape.
Waving her wand one more time, one of the most dangerous fires in the world burn out and vanquish itself. The gangsters she has captured will be useful, she muses. A warning. A very, very strong warning that will be the only way to send a message in this sort of town.
At least, she could do something while she figures out her other problems.
IX.
He is about to step in until Hermione casts the one spell he never expects her to cast. Fiendfyre. His breath catches when he watches her move around her wand with a fluidity of a master. She has cast this spell before. She has, and that fact surprises him.
He knows from her memories that she has a vicious side. Keeping a person in a jar? Getting blackmail material on someone? Coldly watching a woman be dragged by the centaurs to be mentally and physically destroyed? If he doesn't know any better, he would say that Hermione Granger would have made a fine Death Eater.
Her reputation may have her shine as the most powerful witch of the good side, but he didn't listen to rumors and gossips for nothing. Unlike Harry Potter or Ron Weasley's reputation, Hermione Granger actually has a few hush-hush rumors about her. Nothing that could actually pinpoint her or make her look guilty. All that gossip wasn't enough for him to be convinced of something devious about Granger. But now. . .
Seeing those flames bursting from the tip of her wand and witnessing her cast one of the darkest curses in the Dark Arts, he knows. He knows that she is not pure of heart. It draws him back to a time when Headmaster Dippet thought him as one of the best Slytherins at Hogwarts and never suspected him of something horrible. Of course, the students at Hogwarts suspected—or at least, some of them did—but no one could prove anything substantial.
He finds the witch absolutely engrossing to watch. Who knew that this Gryffindor would be so capable of Slytherin deceit?
He follows her to the town square and watch her magically tie the four unconscious gangsters to the three flagpoles. Their clothes are quickly banished except for their undergarments, and he casually watches as Hermione nonverbally casts something on their chests.
It is after she Apparate that he could see the sentence they form.
WATCH. YOUR. BACK. BELBERRY.
His lips curve, and he stares at them for a long time. She has actually cut into them, forcing them to bleed around those cuts. It would be so much fun if he could actually have his way with them. But no.
He could admire Hermione's work of art.
He moves towards them and tilts his head. It still isn't good enough. Raising his beloved wand, he says, "I'm protecting Hermione Granger."
He could hear her scoff at his words.
He whispers, "Obliviate." A white glow appears on all of their faces, and he pats himself down just to make sure nothing funny happens to him. Conjuring a mirror from thin air, he finds himself whole—without a single scratch or mark or a different hairstyle. It works. Without any backfire.
Then satisfied, he steps back and nods. Now, her work of art is finished. Ready to be seen. The right about of boldness and cunning.
His eyes narrow suddenly. There were witnesses. . .
Well, he can't simply leave this mess unattended—even though Hermione was difficult to see and recognize in the dark. He gleefully Apparate from the town square and begins to head back to the exact place Hermione has fought. It is time to go hunting.
He smirks, feeling much happier than ever.
There will be a sudden influx of wizards and witches who suddenly forgot witnessing Hermione Granger cast the Dark Arts tonight.
I feel like this is one of my weaker chapters.
Read and review.