Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not seek to make profit off this work. Harry Potter and its characters belong to JKR and I am happy for her to have that title. I do not own Supernatural or its characters, Kripke does.
Author Note: I'm going back and redoing all the chapters where has deleted my asterisk dividers. Apparently no one loves the asterisks but me. ):
"People should learn to see and so avoid all danger. Just as a wise man keeps away from mad dogs, so one should not make friends with evil men."
—Buddha
Hermione woke up Saturday morning with the sense of impending doom.
Ah, sweet normality.
She stared at the canopy of her four-poster, not yet awake enough to contemplate stepping down onto the cold stone floor of the dungeons and starting the day. Her mind swayed from thought to thought, like a subtle wind dancing with the trees on a mild summer day. For her, the abstract thought always gave her the best results when dealing with a particularly difficult puzzle. Today she hoped to set right some pieces of her scattered life, if only in her mind.
She thought over what had happened the night before, pushing back the kiss with the Dark Lord to the back of her mind. It didn't matter that it was already full.
Cygnus. He was up to something, she knew it. She knew the critical, almost scientific, look in his eyes from the night before entirely too well, even for such a short time knowing him. Her intuition then—that he had instigated the fight between Wilkes and Abraxas—was only solidified when she remembered what he had said when he had stopped ignoring her, after he had responded to Wilkes' subtle jab at her at lunch.
"They summered in France. But Mrs. Wilkes didn't come back."
Hadn't Nott reported that Abraxas, in normal fashion, galled Wilkes about his estranged parents, and that was what had started the fight? And Abraxas had been there at lunch when Cygnus made mention of it.
Hmm. That brought her to another train of thought. What had made Cygnus forget about his plan of ignoring her existence? He had been doing an entirely good job of it before, too good a job of it, actually. She hadn't realized how much lonelier she was without him by her side; even though she'd had Minerva to help cope, she hadn't been enough to keep the waves of loneliness and exclusion away.
But she pushed that thought away, too. She had more important things to think about, without bringing back memories of her first few months at Hogwarts when she was twelve. It was ancient history now.
So Cygnus had started their friendship again. What could he gain from it? Or, more importantly, what had made him start ignoring her?
Tom Riddle.
Well, of course. He disliked Riddle for some reason—and while Hermione knew why he should dislike Riddle, there had seemed to be a friendship between them before. He'd stayed with all the rest of the Death Eaters—
Cygnus was a Death Eater.
She pushed her too-hot face into her pillow, breathing hard through her embarrassment and fury. How could he— He didn't seem like a pureblood supremacist. Sure, he thought he was superior to some types of people—Hufflepuffs, perchance—but did he want them dead? She gasped past the bitterness lodged in her throat, tongue tasting the scratchy cotton of her pillow.
No, he couldn't be—
But denying it didn't stop him from being one.
Okay, okay, breathe, Hermione. It isn't the end of the world if one of your friends is a Death Eater.
Then why did it feel like it?
She opened her eyes, focusing on her original goal and pushing away the unnecessary thoughts. She could dwell on them at another time, then punch Cygnus in the face—
Not dwelling. Right.
So seeing her in a compromising position with Riddle, after he had expressly warned her away from him, had made Cygnus angry with her and start ignoring her. Then what had made him stop ignoring her?
Riddle again.
Perfect. Voldemort had brought her and her two best friends together in first year, and even now, when she was eighteen and in the 1940's, he was making and breaking her friendships. He was certainly an enterprising Dark Lord, she'd give him that.
But that was wrong. It was the morning of the Halloween feast. Which meant… she'd been nineteen for more than a month and hadn't realized it.
She expelled her breath forcefully. Well, it was no use blaming herself. She'd had a lot on her mind, weddings and dream-attacks and everything.
Still. She sat up and pushed back the green curtains, letting out a little hiss as ice shot up her foot when it made contact with the stone floor. Some people—lovesick fools like Parvati and Ambresia—thought all the Hogwarts beds were curtained because the founders were secret romantics. Ha. It was a bloody stone castle in Scotland. It was damn cold.
Shrugging on her robe over her nightgown, she checked the time, surprised when it proclaimed it was only one at night. She'd went to bed at ten, when Riddle had finally dismissed her from the common room and his flunkies. She was sure they couldn't still be up.
And, even if they were, all she had to do was wait on the stairs until they went to bed. Either that or just go back to bed herself. But she hoped she wouldn't have to. She wanted to do this without any eyes on her.
Sticking her head out of the girls' dormitory entrance, feeling slightly amused at how ridiculous she would look to anyone in the common room, she was relieved to see it was empty of Slytherins, Death Eaters and otherwise. She stepped out, triumphant, and made her way to the exit.
"A little underdressed for sneaking, aren't you?"
Of course.
"Just leave it, Riddle," she said, not looking round. Damn, damn, damn.
"Fine," he sighed. "Don't get caught." She almost spun around in surprise at his oddly morose tone. Instead, shaking it and him off, she went back to her original plan and escaped the Slytherin common room.
Having spent six years sneaking around the castle, every creaky stair and Mrs. Norris' haunts memorized, Hermione found herself at a loss in the dungeons. The boys and she had never had much opportunity, and even less desire, to sneak around the dungeons, on Professor Snape's ground.
And everything was so much darker in the dungeons. Even the lit torches along the wall looked darker, more shadowed, than the usual ones. She shivered, hair rising on the back of her neck. She half-expected to see her breath in the cool corridor. Ignoring memories of her dream attack, she started toward the upper levels, hand tensing instinctively around her wand.
She calmed considerably when she reached the entrance hall and the dim, but bright, light coming from the torches, illuminating the shadows so prevalent underground.
She made her way past the marble staircase, falling into memory as she reached her destination, not far from the Hufflepuff common room. Reaching up, she tickled the pear, smiling as she remembered how many times Fred and George had bragged about 'nicking' from the kitchens. Ron had thought they were so brave to do that when, in reality, all they had to do was ask.
Boys.
Hermione found herself smiling as the portrait door opened and she was met with the one thing that hadn't changed over the decades. Wide eyes looked up to her, greetings called out as the elves busied themselves with laundry and baking. She wondered when they slept. Those closest to the door crowded around her. It was a good thing they only came to her waist, or else she might have become claustrophobic with so many creatures surrounding her.
"Er, hello," she said when it seemed none of them would speak up. "I don't mean to be a bother…"
"No bother, Little Mistress," came a bullfrog-like voice from the vicinity of her left hip. Looking at the elf that had spoken, Hermione found him—her?—oddly Kreacher-like. "Missy"—her, then—"will help you."
Hermione watched in bemusement as the elf shooed the others away and, looking oddly sad as they left for their other duties, dutifully sat down at the small table that Missy had ordered over for her use. When everything was put in place—Hermione included—in accord with Missy's specifics, she wiped her gnarled hands on the spotless apron over her tea towel. "Now, what is it you needs, Little Mistress?"
Feeling as if she was being chastised by Molly Weasley for being out of bed so late—she didn't even have to allude to it for her to hear it in her tone, Hermione blushed even as she answered. "I was hoping, I mean, I wondered whether—" At Missy's hard stare, she subsided with a small, hopeful, "Pie?"
Missy nodded before disappearing into the throng of elves behind her without a backward glance. She was back within seconds, several steaming pies floating along behind her, like goslings following their mother.
"Sweet or meat, Little Mistress?" asked the no-nonsense elf as the pies settled on the table. Hermione set aside the elf's odd name for her for another time—when she wasn't being teased by the delicious smells wafting from the freshly made pies.
"Sweet, please."
Nodding as if she had expected it, Missy began cutting into three separate pies, putting a slice of each on the plate in front of Hermione. Rhubarb, blackberry, and a mixture of apple and blackberry. It smelled heavenly and Hermione's mouth practically began salivating at the thought. But when Hermione picked up her fork, ready to dig in, Missy's curt voice stopped her dead.
"Little Mistress will wait until I's is done before eating."
Feeling as if she'd just been slapped on the knuckles, Hermione sat back in her chair, eyes wide as she looked at the little elf that reminded her so forcefully of Molly Weasley with a pinch of disapproving nun. Well. It looked as if all house-elves weren't as docile and obedient as she thought they were, though Missy seemed to be a minority, just like Dobby, if the way the other house-elves edged fearfully around her as if they would catch her candor was any indication.
After a glass of warm milk was set beside her and Missy nodded her approval and stepped back, Hermione looked timidly at the house-elf before taking a bite.
She had been right. It was heavenly.
Closing her eyes, she moaned and did an internal jig as she celebrated her birthday. Sugar and rhubarb exploded on her tongue, almost obscene in its delicacy. She found her anger at Cygnus pushed away and abandoned for a more appropriate time, her fears of the future and the past set aside as flavours teased her tastebuds and blanked out her mind.
When she opened her eyes, it was to find Missy still standing beside her, an odd sort of pride in her eyes. As soon as the elf noticed her watching her, she smiled with sharp, pointed teeth.
"Why do you call me Little Mistress?" Hermione asked, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer.
"You is Master Dumbledore's heir," she answered, pointing at the Dumbledore ring on her hand. "And you is little."
"Oh." Hermione frowned as she speared another forkful of pie. The ring sat heavy on her finger. "So you're Professor Dumbledore's personal elf?"
"I is assigned to look after Master Dumbledore's well-being," Missy said, which was probably the most answer she was going to get. "Do you need anything else from Missy?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, this is more than enough. Thank you."
She watched as Missy returned to her kitchen duties, a small frown on her lips. Hermione had realized quite a long time ago that pushing freedom on a species that revolted against it was just as cruel as the elder Malfoy abusing Dobby, more than cruel, actually, since she had tried to trick them into taking hats and socks. She had recognized that she would have to convince them rather than force them to take wages and clothes if she was to ever have any success with S.P.E.W. They had to embrace freedom of their own free will or else it wasn't freedom at all, just a harsher form of enslavement since they would be homeless and without money. She'd never had any chance to try this, however, seeing as she had been fighting in a war and camping through the wilderness the year immediately after her realization.
But now was not the right time either, no matter how much it hurt to see Hogwarts run on slave labor.
She tucked into the rest of her pie, feeling at home in the busy kitchen as she never would in the Slytherin dungeons.
She was happily full when she reentered the common room, ready to fall into bed and a sugar stupor. She was also fully ready to ignore the brooding Dark Lord sitting in front of the fire, waving to him only as an afterthought as she passed him as the merest sign of her acknowledgement.
"I suppose you're happy that Cygnus"—his lips twisted unpleasantly—"has deigned to speak to you again."
Hermione paused, but then kept walking toward her dormitory. She didn't have to put up with this; not now, not today. "Quite," she responded glibly, also ignoring the flare of anger at his mention of a wound still raw.
"I wonder." Despite her inner mantra, she found her steps slowing at the entrance to the girls' dormitory as she waited for the rest of what he would say. Hatefully, she curled her hand around the stone doorway, her nails scraping against the wall and sending involuntary shivers down her spine.
She still didn't look at him.
"What?"
"Oh," Riddle said, as if he were really surprised that she was still there. "I was just wondering if he would be so… friendly toward you if his father wasn't suspected of supporting Grindewald."
That arrow was well-aimed, she thought, flinching as it struck where it hurt most.
"One cannot know," she said quietly, hating how shaky her voice came out. "Goodnight, Riddle."
"Tom, Hermione," he chided gently.
She had never hated anyone more. Still, she couldn't force herself to look at him, even as she screamed at her feet to turn around. She needed to do this, she needed to fight back. But her feet remained rooted to the spot, and she stared, unseeing, into the darkness of the girls' staircase.
"What do you want from me, Riddle?"
She heard a shuffle, then jumped when, after a moment, hands slid around her waist as his body molded itself to her back. She tensed, closing her eyes as her blood sung in her veins from being so close to its partner, the twin of her own life force. No. She had never hated anyone more than this moment as, quite against her will, she leant back into his touch like a love-deprived puppy.
"I, unlike Cygnus, have never wanted anything from you," he said, his low murmur hitting her in all the right—wrong—spots. "Not friendship, not connections, not"—his hands tightened on her hips—"company. Nothing, except for you to be yourself. Our circumstances might have changed, but I have not."
Our circumstances might have changed. She repressed a snort.
"Would you deny me the friendship that you give Cygnus so freely?" he whispered, nudging her hair out of the way so his whisper hit the skin of her neck, the soft shell of her ear. "The loyalty he has never earned?"
"He—" She coughed the shake out of her voice. "He has more than earned my loyalty. You, you would see that if you knew what friendship actually meant."
Riddle chuckled, lowering his head until his lips touched her neck, branding her with the mere contact. "Then I can only hope you will oblige me by enlightening me on the true meaning of friendship, Hermione."
She took a shallow breath as his hands slid to her stomach, the smooth cotton of her nightgown bunching under his hands. He caressed her slowly, gently, stopping just short of her breasts, though his thumbs smoothed over the sensitive undersides. Every synapses in her body seemed to be firing, and she shifted uncomfortably even as everything inside her screamed for her to get closer, to climb inside him if she had to, in order to get more of that indescribable… thing he was giving her.
"We will be bound together no matter what you decide, Hermione," he continued, his voice hatefully strong while everything shifted inside her. "Even when this bond is severed, we will still be tied together by experience. You can't change the facts, Hermione. The only decision you do have is whether to adapt and change with it, or remain stubborn and be left behind. Evolution, as the Muggles call it."
"How would you have me evolve, Riddle?" she asked, rankled that he was using Darwinism in his dubious quest for her friendship. "All you seem to want are slaves, not equals."
She felt him stiffen behind her. Oh, he hadn't been expecting that, not at all. She smiled lazily, feeling like the cat that had found the nip. She was easily able to ignore the feelings he incited in her now. Turning around and stepping out of his embrace, she turned that smile up at him. "I, for one, do not have the required obedience for a slave. Goodnight, Riddle."
Her bed was cold when she finally slid under the covers, the hangings firmly shutting out the rest of the dormitory. She didn't care though. It erased the heat that her body wouldn't let go of, Riddle's heat.
Call her to you, the whisper came again. Tom supposed it was meant to sound reassuring, a mere suggestion and not an order. Instead he felt suspicion sliding around him like a snake in dark water. He turned in his bed, the covers twisting around his waist.
He didn't want to call her to him; he had been rebuffed one too many times this evening. He didn't know how to call her anyway, didn't know why he should. A frown touched his lips, destroying the beauty of his innocence in sleep.
Call her to you.
A demand this time. The frown grew deeper, a line between his brows showing his unease. Why? She was a nuisance, a Dumbledore. Just because the hat put her in Slytherin didn't mean she was worthy.
His hands reached out of their own accord, wandlessly calling. Silently, the book rose from under his bed, the wards protecting it falling away as it reached him.
Call her to you.
The frown melted from his lips and he sighed in his sleep. His fingers curled around the book.
"You know," Tom said, voice rough with sleep, "my badge could get taken away if anyone found you here." His arm didn't move from around her.
"I, er, that is to say—"
Snickering at her expense, he nudged aside the great bush of her hair in order to see her confused and frankly terrified eyes. He frowned at the sight. "You mean you don't remember coming in here, sneaking into my bed sometime around three?" She shook her head, looking more confused than ever.
He stared hard at the side of her face. She seemed truthful enough, but he knew her uncle was a fantastic liar, though he'd never caught him in one.
He fell onto his back, his arm dropping off her side and coming to rest on his stomach as he stared at the dark canopy of his four-poster, a frown on his face.
So what had happened?
"Um, Riddle, nothing… happened, right?" she asked, still facing away from him.
"No," he growled, chafed by how small and terrified her voice was. Was he that disgusting to her?
He focused on the memory of that morning, but it was sluggish to rise. Had she really snuck in and slipped under the covers? He couldn't remember exactly what had happened, only that he had wakened to find that his arm wasn't wrapped around a ridiculously warm pillow and that he was being smothered by a sentient head of hair not his own.
"You don't remember?" he asked, and found that his voice was just as shaky as her own. He was being played, they both were, and he didn't like that one bit.
She bit her lip as she turned onto her back, a peculiar camaraderie between them as they examined the canopy of his four-poster. "No. I don't remember waking up at all, much less walking out of my dormitory, through the common room, and slipping into your bed in the dead of night. Without slippers, no less. Though, I suppose—" She turned suddenly, and looked over the side of the bed. "Nope. No slippers." She settled back onto the bed with a little sigh.
"Any habits of sleepwalking?"
"Nope. You?"
"I can assure you that I did not carry you out of your bed and into mine," he said harshly. In the silence after his declaration, Hermione sniggered. He glanced at her quickly. "What?"
"Just imagining you as someone who 'spirits young maidens away,'" she said, still sniggering.
"I can kick you out of my bed, slippers or no," he said seriously. She subsided after a moment, lips still twitching.
He contemplated the canopy, noticing the odd spot here and there in the fabric as their situation ran through his mind. Hermione arrives in his bed, no memory of her journey, only an hour or so after rebuffing him. It was definitely a mystery.
"Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?"
The question surprised both of them, but he kept his face expressionless when Hermione turned to look at him, impatiently pushing her hair away.
"The Muggle character?" Tom nodded and she made a little 'hmm' noise, pursing her lips as she looked back at the canopy. It seemed to be a safe place to look. "It does seem like his brand of mystery," she finally said, startling him by agreeing with his internal musing.
"I used to read his stories when I was young," he said slowly, unsure of his reception. "I've always been fond of them. Very sensible." Not like the fairy tales the rest of the children were so fond of.
His four-poster was very silent, excepting the soft sounds of their breathing. He half-closed his eyes, wondering if he would be able to get to sleep if she stayed in his bed. A stray thought of the time went through his head.
"We're not going to start telling our life stories now, are we?" Hermione asked, breaking the silence with a tremulous voice. He snorted at the mere suggestion. "Good." She sounded very relieved.
"How did you hear about Sherlock Holmes?" he asked after he had established that it would be very hard indeed to fall asleep next to her. He propped himself up on his hand as he turned on his side, looking down at her as the sheets pooled around their bodies. Hermione patted down the sheet between them, ostentatiously to keep the chill air out.
"My mother—I told you that she favoured Muggle arts, yes? Well, she used to read some of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's shorter works to me when I was young. The Red-Headed League, A Scandal in Bohemia, off the top of my head." She smiled fondly, fingering the cuff of her cotton nightgown. "We used to try and guess the outcome of every story."
"And did you?" he asked before he could reconsider.
Silence. Then, "I don't remember."
"Imperius?"
"I'd know," she said, catching onto his meaning immediately, sounding tremendously pleased to get off the subject of her mother. Hmm. When he raised an eyebrow, she blushed. "Dumbledores take learning very seriously," she said defensively.
"I'm sure," he said dryly. "But that still doesn't explain how you came to be in my bed. Unless you've somehow learned how to Apparate inside Hogwarts and were unsatisfied by your sleeping arrangements? I thought not."
Hermione got a pinched look on her face, which meant she was mentally chasing a lead. He'd seen it too many times in their search for the name of the ritual binding for him to forget it.
"What about the book?" she whispered. "Have you opened it recently?"
Tom shook his head, frowning. Sure, the book had unintentionally bound them together, but she was talking as if it were actually sentient, which was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.
Hermione exhaled forcefully. "Well, that's out," she said, which didn't quite match with the relief in her voice. She leaned over again, giving him a view of her shapely legs as her nightgown pulled up, and peeked through the curtains. After a moment, she said, "I forgot all the windows look out at the lake."
Tom laughed silently, earning a glare as Hermione pulled away from the curtains. He looked at his clock. "Almost time for breakfast," he told her. He glanced around the dormitory, ignoring the chill he let in, seeing that all the other four-posters were tightly curtained, as they usually were on Saturdays. He eyed Cygnus's for a moment longer, then pulled his head back into his own bed.
He nodded when she asked if his dormmates were still sleeping. "Good. I don't want another…" She ran off, blushing as she flipped back the covers. "Er, thanks for not molesting me in my sleep. See you at breakfast!" she finished, half-hysterically, before disappearing through the curtains.
Tom settled back into bed, arms behind his head as he contemplated the ceiling.
Yes, she was definitely a Dumbledore. The whole lot were mad.
He scoffed and pulled the blankets higher to ward off the chill. He would save the deep thoughts about this new problem for later, after he'd had some coffee in his stomach. He didn't move to take the spot she'd slept in, though his hand curled over the residual warmth left in the mattress.
"I never thought you were one for chaos and mayhem," Hermione said as Cygnus Black sat down beside her.
"It is entirely too early for introspection," Cygnus said with a faked yawn. She glowered. Eyeing the way she was stabbing her bangers—not to mention the maniacal gleam in her eyes—he coughed nervously. "Are you well? Perhaps you should see Madam Cur—"
"I will destroy you," she declared. "Your children's children's children will still be feeling the backlash after I'm through with you, you utter bastard."
Cygnus took a sip of his water, wondering how skilled Albus Dumbledore's heir was in animate to inanimate Transfiguration. Or maybe he'd get lucky and she'd turn him into a goldfish.
Though he didn't know why he thought that was lucky. At least he'd be able to communicate his distress to the merpeople in the lake as he wouldn't be able to as a gaudy trinket left in the Slytherin common room for ages and ages, only the house-elves to dust him.
Did the merpeople understand distress-filled air bubbles? It would be all in the gills, he decided.
"My great-grandchildren, Hermione?" he said coolly, ignoring the image of a goldfish evading a hungry merperson. Would that count as cannibalism? "How unnecessary cruel of you. Here I thought you were a Dumbledore."
"Oh, I can easily suspend my last name for a few seconds," she snarled. "I do not take kindly to being used without my knowledge, Cygnus. Ironically enough, it was Riddle who pointed out how useful I am to you."
"Meaningful chats with your boyfriend, then?" He sneered. "Did you at least remove your outer robes this time? Or do you get off on—"
"Why don't you tell me what you get off on, Black. After a Muggleborn is murdered, or during the act? Or is that just your father?" Breakfast forgotten, her cheeks flushed as if a fire were lit under her skin, she stood abruptly, the bench scraping against the floor loudly.
It was lucky there weren't many Slytherins at the table, and none close, or else he would never hear the end of this from Abraxas. The Ravenclaws at the table over, however, weren't the least bit circumspect about their eavesdropping.
"Happy Halloween," she finished, the well-wish as much as a curse as an actual one. She swept away from the table, and he heard Tom greeting her as if from a long way away as he returned his focus on his meal.
He glanced up as Tom sat down beside him, not even leaving Hermione's space open as he was wont to do when she wasn't there at mealtime. His smirk said it all. The game was up, for now.
Cygnus got up from the table, absolutely disgusted with himself, with Hermione, with Tom. With them all.
Hermione knew, as all time travellers knew and understood, that the laws of time travel were Indisputable, capital I and everything. They could not be broken, no matter the force or will set against them.
And the number one rule of time travel was that if a time traveller knew a fact about the future, that fact was impervious to all change.
Even if Hermione had wanted to change the past—maybe killing Greyback before he could infect Remus—she could not. She didn't know how exactly she would be unable to do so, but all the evidence pointed to a very bloody and very excruciating end for her if she so tried, and she didn't particularly want to put it to the test. Having seen Remus firsthand transform in her third year, it was indisputable fact to her, and nothing she did could change that.
However, anything unknown by the traveller could have happened any which way, and so the time traveller could perform it any which way and that is the way it would have happened. That was why her third year adventure with Harry had turned out so well for everybody—except Snape, of course, who had never gotten his Order of Merlin First Class, she recalled.
Those two rules, the most important, were all very clear in Hermione's head, which was why she hesitated outside Dumbledore's office door.
He did not know these facts. He did not know that Hermione had fought for the side of Light, that she was the best friend of the wizard who had defeated Lord Voldemort. Hell, he didn't even know of a Lord Voldemort. The Wizarding world was, for now, concerned with Grindewald, whom Hermione knew as indisputable fact would be defeated by Dumbledore.
But he did not know these things, which was, again, why she paused outside his door.
He only knew the indisputable facts that had appeared to him. Like her being the apparent willing bride of Tom Riddle, who he had always suspected of being the instigator of Moaning Mrytle's death. In his eyes, she was a Slytherin—a House he was biased against—and always at young Tom Riddle's left hand. The side closest to his heart.
Now that thought really gave Hermione pause, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth for a moment before she remembered that that was not why she was there—and certainly not something that she wanted to think about. Ever. She was there because she needed to reassure Dumbledore not to act against her in any way, for she knew he had to be suspicious of her motives after what he learned. She was there to calm any suspicions he had, and to reassure him that she was not, in fact, a willing anything to Tom Riddle, much less his wife.
It had been more than a month since she had cried at the edge of the lake, then found herself transported to this era, almost a realm unto itself, for how Riddle had kinged himself. And the Founders Book was still blank, as empty as her hopes of returning to her own time. She no longer had any hope that she would come out of this predicament unscathed, much less alive.
As dividing emotions crashed over her, almost knocking her off her feet with their strength, she knew she couldn't give up that last hope. That she could not, would not, lose her will to survive.
It was decidedly Slytherin thinking, and she raised her hand to knock. No matter what lies she had to tell, what platitudes she had to give, she would not allow her will to live diminish. She could, she would, come out of this, and even if she was never able to go back to her home, she would survive nonetheless.
She had to.
"Hermione." Dumbledore smiled as he opened the door wider for her to enter. "I was just thinking about you."
"Nothing negative I hope, Professor," she said back, smiling fondly at him as she passed him into his office. Despite how much she loved Professor McGonagall, she had found Professor Dumbledore's teaching methods exemplary. She had no doubt that he was perhaps her favourite teacher, and for that she could be thankful for coming to the past.
"No, dear," he said, surprising her. She searched his eyes, and was unexpectedly disquieted when she saw nothing but sincerity, though she knew she should have been rejoicing. She sat down in her customary seat in front of his desk.
His smile was congenial as he sat behind his desk, hands folded on his desk in serenity. She pushed her suspicion for his sincerity aside, sure that her old Headmaster and now adopted kin had no sinister plans for her. Though she wasn't dumb enough to believe he had no plans for her.
"Is there a reason you have come to me? Shouldn't you be celebrating with your friends? I have it, on good authority, I might add, that the Slytherins routinely throw a little party after the feast."
She mentally winced at the mention of the Slytherin Halloween party. Just a time-honoured excuse to steal liquor from their rich parents and pass out starkers. Hermione shifted in her chair, nose wrinkling as her carefully rehearsed words poured from her mouth. "The matter of which we last spoke, of my"—she cleared her throat—"marriage. I've come to explain myself to you, as you deserve an explanation."
He lifted a frail hand, stroking his beard as he appeared deep in thought. "I see, Miss Dumbledore. And why have you left your explanation so long? Seeing as it has been more than a day since I've revealed my knowledge of your marriage, I did not expect to receive such an explanation from you."
Hermione licked her lips nervously.
"I needed to figure out whether you could be, er—"
"Trusted?" Dumbledore finished when her pause had lengthened into minutes. She coughed, embarrassed, but relieved that the word had been taken out of her mouth. He smiled.
"Yes, sir," she said, wishing furiously that she could control the colour on her cheeks. "I wasn't sure what I could safely tell you. I mean, I know you're trustworthy, explicitly, I just wasn't sure what you would do with whatever information I revealed. I know that in this era time travel and its laws are still being developed, but in mine they are incontrovertible."
Dumbledore stopped her babble with a raised hand, a small smile playing around his lips. "Can you explain some of these laws to me, Miss Dumbledore?"
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. That she could do without impunity, and she did, telling him all she could remember—which was quite a lot—from her third year and the one law that had held her hand so much since September.
Dumbledore wasn't like Ron and Harry, who would have zoned out after the first few sentences and the tenth five-syllable word; nor was he like Cygnus and Minerva, who would have followed but been bored with a discussion not concentrated on Arithmancy or Transfiguration, their respective loves.
Indeed, the only one she could compare him to was Tom Riddle, who always sat back and just listened when she unexpectedly found herself discussing magical theory with him. It had happened more than occasionally since the day they were forced into each other's company by Madam Curfin and her magical cast. She didn't quite know what to think about it, but she was amazed at how he would just listen to her, occasionally asking questions, but generally just letting her explain her theories or expound on a thesis without interruption. It was an odd comfort she found herself liking. She was sad to say she would miss it.
Forcing her thoughts to a screeching halt, she waited as Dumbledore took a moment to comprehend the abstract theory of time travel—she wasn't stupid enough to give him the whole deal—before leading into the real reason why she was there in the first place.
"Riddle—he had the Founders Book and did almost everything that I did to try and make it reveal whatever its hiding. Most importantly, he donated his blood, which, unexpectedly—"
"—bound you to him," finished Albus Dumbledore, intellectual curiosity replaced by the gravity of the situation. She was glad he grasped the importance immediately. "It is not surprising. However, I do admit that I had hoped the Book's abilities would trouble you, trouble us, no longer after it was taken."
He held up his hand again when she gasped. "I do not mean to upset you, my child. I only wished to admit, if a little shamefully, that I wanted to learn more about you and the future." He smiled a little airily. "A curiosity such as yourself is a terrible temptation to an old wizard like myself."
She looked at him doubtfully, having heard that self-deprecating tone of his too often in her past to know that what usually followed—on her part—was a life-or-death adventure. She wasn't too keen on the idea, not when she was housed in the same dorm as Lord Voldemort. He was the ultimate life-or-death adventure by himself, without battling dragons or solving logic puzzles.
"I admit that I can see the attraction," she said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. Dumbledore looked even more amused. "But there are terrible consequences for those who meddle with time. And… even as lonely as I am here, I'm unwilling to divulge any information that would give you the ability to change events. The past, my past, was terrible and filled with death and destruction, but Light won out in the end, as it usually does. I just wish I had gotten to enjoy it more before I was brought here."
It might not have won entirely for her personally—things had not shifted into place like she'd thought it would after Voldemort was defeated. But, though things might not have automatically gone to rainbows and butterflies, no longer was her best friend being hunted down by a psychopath. No longer had Bellatrix Lestrange walked the earth, destruction in her wake. No longer…
Dumbledore watched her mental tangent with shrewd eyes, thoughts rapidly forming and clicking into place as sorrow, anger and love played out on his adopted niece's face. He fingered the end of his beard, several conjectures forming in his mind, not least of which the reason that brought her here.
Finally, after remembering that now was not the time to think about the past when she was in the room with a skilled Legilimens, she dropped the morbid memories for the new present. She made a mental note to check out books on Occlumency before she went back to the dungeons.
"I never knew Tom Riddle had a wife," she said eventually, the silence of the office, seeming as if it was just waiting for her, guiding her to speak. "I don't know much about his childhood or school years except what you told me." Well, told Harry, but that was just semantics. "You collected certain memories, your own and others, so we could try to understand him."
His blue eyes narrowed. "I conclude he was a threat of some sort, from the way you speak."
No answer was enough of one.
Fawkes' trill broke the tension in the room, and Dumbledore glanced at the clock above the lit fireplace, a small, sad smile crossing his lips. "Ah, it seems the rest of our conversation will have to wait for another day. I have a very important meeting to attend." Suddenly, he gave her a sharp look, frowning. His question was clear on his face and Hermione was struck with the absolute knowledge that whatever meeting he had, it had to do with Grindewald.
She pursed her lips to his unspoken question, and he slightly relaxed in his chair, now knowing she would keep her word not to reveal specifics.
"Is there anything you need to ask before you leave?"
She almost jumped, but realized what he meant in time. Madam Amber and her cryptic warning passed through her mind.
"I was wondering whether I could get a special dispensation to leave grounds tomorrow," Hermione said, quickly coming to a decision. "I have a… lead, of sorts, that might pan out into something useful." Dear Gods, she was sounding like one of those cop shows her father was addicted to.
Dumbledore stood, smiling at her as he ushered her to the door. "Granted. Just make sure to take the necessary precautions. The war might not have reached Britain as of yet, but one can never be too careful. I'm sure the Ministry will issue a portkey back to Hogsmeade if I ask."
She smiled, though she wasn't sure she would take him up on the offer. A portkey from the Ministry might mean being tracked, and she wasn't willing to risk it. "Thank you, sir. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, my dear."
Albus watched as she made her way down the corridor and back to her dungeons. He hadn't been lying when he had first told her that it would be in her best interests to make a life in this era, her first morning of classes. He was glad to see she had accepted that fact, though he hoped her spirits would not stay as dampened as they appeared to be.
And Tom… Well, if what he'd seen from his brief look into her mind was true, would need some watching. It would be useful to have more insight into the enigma that he represented, along with his unwilling bride. He went back into his office when she turned the corner, a slight bounce in his step.
Hermione, however, was just grateful she had gotten away before he mentioned anything about Riddle stealing the book and her feelings on the matter. She didn't know how she would have responded, the anger all mixed up with something primal, deeper, than mere mortal reactions—due, she knew, to the binding ritual. Then she remembered that she had forgotten to mention her transportation to Riddle's bed.
She blushed. Well, maybe it wasn't imperative that Dumbledore know everything.
With a new set of books under her arm, she found the Slytherin common room full of half-dressed and more than drunk seventh years. It was enough to make her wish she'd died in the Battle of Hogwarts, if it meant she never had to witness whatever that pale thing was that Abraxas Malfoy was showing off so proudly, albeit drunkenly.
She weaved through the melee, coming to grips that Slytherins really did multiply when she wasn't looking, heading determinedly toward the girls' dormitory before she could be dragged into the bedlam. Eris would have a lot of fun in this chaos.
Riddle gave her an odd look as she passed, which she returned, with interest, since he was half-dressed with only an inadequate tie covering his chest. A perfectly ironed tie, mind.
Steady on. Almost there. A nice warm bed, without any hint of Dark Lords or almost blindingly white Malfoys. Just think of the books.
She groaned when she heard Abraxas's shout. "Melt your cold heart and join the play, dear Hermione!"
"The debauchery, you mean," she corrected absently, though not nearly loud enough for anybody to hear over… Who in Merlin's right mind thought that the banshee equivalent of the Weird Sisters was good party music?
Seeing Cygnus raise his glass in a mocking salute to her from the corner where he was curled up with one of Ambresia's friends, Hermione found anger quickened her pace until she was finally in the quiet of her dormitory, then finally sliding into her bed with warm woolen socks pulled up to her knees. After a millisecond of thought, she charmed her closed curtains so nobody could get in or out. She didn't want to take the chance that she was actually sleepwalking right into his bed.
A blush spreading across her cheeks, she started resolutely on her book on Occlumency, resolved to put the whole thing behind her.
It would never happen a second time.
"Oh, this is just cruel."