Guys – I have over a thousand reviews! I'm so psyched! Thank you all so much. I couldn't do any of this without your support, constructive criticism, and kind words.

I got some of the best reviews yet for this chapter – there was so much emotion! People were cussing me out for leaving them hanging like that. I especially enjoyed JustRainy's review – it made me laugh out loud. ASunInWinter made me chuckle as well. All of you are awesome, and I was so excited to have that many people respond so strongly!

Also, for those of you that didn't get the memo at the beginning of chapter 27, I did go back and change chapter 26. So go back and reread the end of that chapter so that you aren't confused as to why things suddenly don't seem to fit with what you remember.

To SabersDragon: I used to have an update schedule – roughly every two weeks, usually on a Tuesday – but then it was all shot to hell when I got promoted and took on a lot more responsibility at work. So it's been pretty sporadic since the new year started. I've just got over a bad case of writer's block, so hopefully things will be more consistent, but I don't want to make promises and disappoint my readers. All I can promise is that I won't abandon the story.

In her (or his, idk) review, Relent1ess was speculating as to Conan's dream/vision. And she/he mentioned that she/he thought it was either Voldemort that had come through the rip in space-time or the vampires that had arranged for Hermione to be snatched, because of the mention of the "unfamiliar black eyes, dark and penetrating and somehow human but also not." But if you think about it, Voldemort has red eyes. And my description of the vampires in chapter 20 was that their eyes were dark chocolate. So who do we know with black eyes that might be able to penetrate the mind of Conan Avery? Who has been in Conan's mind before besides Tom? The answer is frighteningly simple if you just look at the information provided to you. Believe it or not, a lot of my plot twists are super predictable – people always come up with these elaborate conjectures, and the truth is that I'm just not smart enough to make it super complicated. My new drama, The Zone Where Black and White Clash, will be very mysterious and full of all sorts of twists and turns, and the ending is going to be totally unexpected; I'm actually looking forward to it. But that sort of plot takes a lot more time and thought and effort, and so with She Rises things will be a bit more straightforward.

These next two chapters get kind of dark, y'all. There is a fine line between the Hermione that likes to scare people and play games and the Hermione that can kill someone in cold blood. And there is another fine line between the Hermione that can kill someone in cold blood because it's necessary and the Hermione that can kill someone in cold blood because she wants to. Fine lines all around.

Anyway, be prepared for some character death. You all knew this was coming. Don't act surprised.

Also, someone asked me about my use of the term sorrel to describe color – I can't remember if I was referring to Hermione's hair or eyes – but just to clarify, sorrel refers to a chestnut color. It is most commonly used in reference to horses, and seeing as I grew up in the equine world I didn't even think about it. Sorrel is actually a plant – an herb, I think, though I was too lazy to look any of this up and I'm just going off of my memory – and I think its roots are noticeably chestnut, hence the use of the word sorrel as a synonym for brown. So there you go. You learned something new today (though I would encourage you to look it up before taking my word for it).

Trivia question of the day: who can tell me what 'coquelicot' means without looking it up? Any guesses? It's used in this chapter – see if you can figure it out. Fifty points to the house of the reader who comes closest to guessing right. No cheating! That's no fun.


oooo

Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it. –Terry Pratchett

Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire, called conscience. –George Washington

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives; who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? – Friedrich Nietzsche

'Eye for an eye.'
'Tooth for a tooth'
'Blood for blood'
We've all gotta die

And that's why they call me
Bad company
I won't deny
Bad company
Till the day I die
-"Bad Company" by Five Finger Death Punch


oooo

The first thing she noticed when she regained consciousness was that it was cold.

The second thing was that she was lying face down on the ground, her cheek pressed to the dirt.

The third was that her head hurt like a bitch.

And the fourth was that she was bound, wandless, and staring at a pair of boots that belonged to Gavin Rosier.

She coughed. "I should have known," she said tiredly. "I should have known that you would do something stupid like this."

"Shut up, Granger," he snarled, kicking her harshly in the side. She jolted. She felt one of her ribs, which had been broken and healed and broken and healed, fracture for a third time. She resisted the urge to curse.

She looked up at him, blinking tears away. Beneath his cloak he was dressed as an Egyptian pharaoh, and with his Scandinavian coloring he looked absolutely ridiculous. "Didn't anyone advise you against dressing up as someone from an entirely different race?" she asked scathingly. "You look like a little boy playing dress up before his mother tells him that 'no, darling, we aren't actually Egyptian – '"

He kicked her again, and she laughed into the dirt. She wriggled her fingers, which were starting to go numb with how tightly they were bound behind her back. Warm blood dripped down her temple towards her eye, and she shifted as best she could so that it didn't blind her.

"I can't believe you hit me in the head like a bloody barbarian," she said groggily, struggling to get ahold of her magic. It was elusive, just out of reach, slipping away on glassy tendrils every time she grasped for it. Her head swam, her thoughts disjointed as she fought for clarity. "You're a wizard, aren't you?" she goaded. "Not some wandless Muggle."

He sneered at her, staring down with cruel blue eyes. "I figured better safe than sorry. Thought a stone to the head might do the trick, especially since I was advised that your wand had something of a mind of its own. And then after you threw my Imperius off last time – "

"Oh yes," she said mildly, smiling fondly. "That was a lovely night, wasn't it?"

He kicked her again, and this time she couldn't quite help the tears that jumped into her eyes. A few of them escaped onto her face. Still, she smiled. "Advised by whom?"

"What?" Rosier asked stupidly.

"Who advised you about my wand?" she clarified, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Didn't see his face," he said nonchalantly, shrugging his massive shoulders. "Just a scar on his hand, and handwriting on a letter. Not sure who it was. But he offered me a lot of money, and a life away from here and Tom fucking Riddle."

"Ooh," she teased with a grin. "Better not let him hear you talking like that. He'd skin you alive."

"After tonight, I'm never coming back to this place, Granger," he said with a smile. "Whoever it is that hired me will kill you, and I'll be rewarded handsomely, with status and power. Riddle won't be able to touch me," he finished smugly.

She frowned, and then turned her head further so she could truly meet his eyes. "Surely," she said quietly, "surely you aren't stupid enough to believe that." His nostrils flared. She huffed out a sardonic laugh. "If Tom fucking Riddle wants to find you, Rosier, he will," she said. "Even I know that, and I've known him a lot less time than you. Even if it takes him a hundred years, he'll hunt you down and find you." She chuckled. "Did you really think you could escape?" she asked meanly. "From him?"

Before he could speak, she continued. "Besides, what kind of a moron comes into the Forbidden Forest on Halloween on a full moon?" she said contemptuously. Her sentence was punctuated by the howling of a lone wolf in the distance. Rosier looked up sharply. She laughed. "Oh, didn't you realize?" she snarked.

"Shut up," he said lowly. "Just shut up."

She laughed gleefully, her head spinning so much that she felt half-mad. Fawkes stirred to life within her, just as groggy as she. He seethed, roiling around like a ball of lava inside her chest, trying to stabilize so that he could help her.

Her, him, Hermione, Fawkes, them – they were nearly one and the same, now. It was becoming hard to distinguish his spirit from hers anymore.

"It would be worth dying, I think," she coughed, "just to see the look on your face as a werewolf rips your throat out."

His eyes widened in consternation. She shook her head minutely. "Don't worry," she assured him. "If I were you, I would be more concerned about centaurs," she said honestly. "They're mighty territorial, you see. Don't take kindly to humans invading their space. Or," she continued, relishing in the way his eyes darted this way and that through the trees, "I would be worried that either Draco or Tom would find out and somehow track you down and tear you apart." She hummed playfully. "I wonder who would hurt you more?" she said idly. "I know how dark and sadistic Tom is, especially when it comes to things he think are his – so normally I would go with him. But I don't know. Mallery loves me more than anything in the whole world, and I have seen him lose it a few times. I once saw him kill a man by just punching him in the face again and again and again. And even after he was dead Draco just kept punching him, until his head was just kind of this pulpy mess – "

Hermione's voice died as he hit her with a silencing charm. She laughed soundlessly, cracking her neck as she felt some of her magic return to her and felt some of her mental faculties come back online. Fawkes lent her some of his strength. Finding the root of the silencing charm within her mind, she tugged on it, and it unraveled.

"You know," she began again, wriggling a little and trying to work some feeling back into her fingers, "you really should have thought this through more." When he looked puzzled, she cleared her throat. "My mind is very difficult to exert any sort of control over, Gavin," she said in explanation. "And, at its core, a silencing spell is simply a restraint on the brain. Because speech originates in the brain," she explained, slipping into her boring professor mode. If she could just distract him long enough to grasp ahold of her magic and dissolve the magical rope that wrapped around her wrists and bound her to the tree…

"Unless," she continued conversationally, enjoying the frustration and confusion on his face, "you were to discover a silencing charm that worked directly on the windpipe or the tongue. A version of the langlock spell, perhaps…"

He was beginning to sweat. She grinned internally. The wind blew around them, whistling through the trees in an eerie way that would have scared a much younger Hermione. Rosier shifted, holding his wand up, his eyes flickering from left to right.

"Do you think that acromantula is still hiding in the forest?" she said next. "You know, the one that that boy…what was his name – oh, Hagrid – the one that Hagrid released?" The blond stared at her with wide eyes. "If you gave me my wand," she purred darkly, "I could help us both get out of the forest alive. And then I would return to the castle, and give you a free pass, and you could run as fast and far as your heart desires – "

He sneered at her again, but his expression was far less confident. "I don't have your wand, you stupid girl," he hissed. "I left it behind. I wasn't going to risk touching that thing."

She stiffened, her heart sinking at the news. "So," she said quietly, "you're telling me that you brought us both out here, into the Forbidden Forest, at night, on Halloween, during a full moon, beyond the Hogwarts wards, and you left my wand in the castle – fuck, Rosier, are you bloody stupid?" she hissed. She rolled her eyes. "Don't answer that. Of course you are. Are you sure this person you're working for isn't trying to get rid of us both?"

His lips twitched down at the corners. "No, Granger, he was very clear – "

"Was he?" she asked, feeling hysteria bubble in her chest. Fawkes stirred, feeling restless.

"Just shut up, Granger, I'm sick of hearing you talk – "

Suddenly two figures moved towards them through the trees. Hermione stared as Gavin pointed his wand at them; gripping it so tight his knuckles went white. The strangers both raised their hands, and one of them lowered his hood.

"Put it down, Mister Rosier," he said in a heavily accented voice. Hermione squinted up at him from her uncomfortable position on the ground. "No need for violence."

"I know you," Hermione murmured, narrowing her eyes on his scarred face. "I saw a glimpse of you in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago – "

"You speak of the day you killed my partner," he said with a sneer. "I watched him die."

"Yes," she said with a fond smile. "He was being rather nosy, you see – "

Rosier kicked her again, and she laughed, feeling lucky that her rib hadn't punctured her lung by now. "Hush," he said harshly. He looked up at the Russian man. "I don't care who killed who, or who you are," he said quickly. "I did what you asked. Now you have to deliver. I'm ready to get out of here.

"Who killed whom," she muttered under her breath. "Bloody idiot, did no one teach you proper English?" She huffed.

Neither of them heard her. Grindelwald's spy nodded. "You have. And Herr Grindelwald delivers on his promises," he assured smoothly.

"Grindelwald?" Rosier said incredulously. "That's who I've been working for?"

"Mostly," the Russian said with a cryptic smile. "Yes. Now, I'm going to stun the girl –"

His sentence was cut short just as hoof beats sounded through the trees, and an arrow went clean through the man's chest, tearing a hole and ending up in the trunk of the tree in front of which Hermione lay, landing just above where the magical rope that bound her circled it. Another arrow caught Rosier through the hand, pinning him to the tree he was leaning against. He howled, and Hermione was able to turn over onto her side just in time to avoid a pair of feathered hooves to the face. She grunted as she felt her broken rib shift painfully, and then watched on, heart racing, as the other hooded man got his head bashed in by the same pair of front hooves.

It was a lone centaur, and Hermione recognized him instantly. She sucked in a sharp breath as a young Magorian turned on her, staring down at her with sharp amber eyes. He lifted his bow and aimed. She closed her eyes.

When she heard the twang of the bow, she felt heat on her face as Fawkes surged weakly within her. Her eyes shot open just as the arrow caught flame, burning to ash only centimeters away from her nose. Fawkes did the mental equivalent of collapsing back into a chair, exhausted as he exerted his power while still trying to gain equilibrium.

Magorian reared back, bumping into Rosier, who whimpered in misery, his blue eyes glazed in pain and darting between the centaur, Hermione, and his wand, which lay on the ground where he'd dropped it, far out of his reach.

"Witch!" Magorian accused harshly, once again aiming his bow at her.

Hermione frowned, feeling weary. "Yes, I am a witch," she said sardonically. "This isn't news to me."

He peered at her curiously, his expression angry. "You have no wand."

"Not at the moment, no," she said through clenched teeth, struggling to rein in her sarcasm for the sake of not offending a centaur that was notoriously volatile. "As you can see, I'm not exactly in a very good position here."

"How did you burn my arrow?" he asked, ignoring her attempt to be smart.

"With fire," she responded with a sneer. "Are you finished asking stupid questions?"

He reared at her cheek, and again she twisted to avoid his trampling hooves, flopping onto her back and crying out in pain as she heard two audible snaps: one from her rib, and one from Rosier's wand, which now lay in three pieces beneath the centaur's feet. Stupid, Hermione, she thought to herself. Maybe you could try not offending the one centaur who you know hates humans the most.

"Sorry," she said hastily. "I've a head wound, you see," she explained, wincing. "I'm not quite myself. I tend to get mouthy when I'm injured."

"Are you a foal?" he asked harshly, nostrils flaring as he glared at her.

She shook her head. "Alas, no," she answered. "If we're being honest. I'm a bit past foal age. But you can let me live anyway, if you like," she croaked, turning back onto her side to ease the pressure on her bound wrists. She winced.

He looked down for a moment, curious. Then he glanced up sharply, and she followed his gaze to the right, past where Rosier stood deliriously, still pinned to the tree by an arrow nearly as thick as his palm. Her eyes alighted on something very curious.

"Fireflower," she murmured, watching as a small group of the rare blooms opened at the base of a tree, partially sheltered by a scattering of shrubs and massive roots. They were tiny, no bigger than her thumbnails, opening up like tiny crocus flowers, glowing bright yellow-orange and casting their light onto the trees around them, chasing away shadow and gloom as effectively as if the sun had risen right there from the ground. "But…fireflowers only open in the spring."

Magorian made a noise in his throat, somewhere between a human grunt and a horse-like whinny. His nostrils flared, and his pointed ears twitched. The muscles of his sleek equine body shuddered, rippling underneath the gleaming chestnut coat that shone warmly in the light of the blooms. His tawny eyes flickered down to her prone form again, scrutinizing her from beneath bushy black eyebrows.

"Watch for the one for whom the fireflower opens,'" he murmured lowly. His expression was grave. "'Watch for the one who has the heart of the lion, who is never alone, who walks with Death and flies with Fire. Watch for the one who is two.'"

Hermione froze as he reached down and put his hands underneath her arms, lifting her to bend at the waist and sit against the tree at her back. He was not gentle about it. She whined in pain and gritted her teeth.

"What did you mean – "

"Get out of the forest," he said seriously, frowning at her. "Evil things lurk here under the full moon. I cannot release your bonds – I do not have wizards' magic." His ears twitched, and he looked up at the sky, the full moon only partially visible through the autumn foliage. "Help is on the way, I think," he said cryptically. He snorted, and backed up from her. Then he turned, and pointed his bow at Rosier's heart.

"Wait!" Hermione said sharply, holding up her hand. The centaur looked back on her. "Please," she said, swallowing hard. "Leave him." She put it into terms he would understand. "He may have trespassed on herd land, but his first offense was against me," she said gently. She met his brilliant amber eyes. "With your permission, I would be the one to execute him."

He snorted, and then lowered his bow and bent his head in acquiescence. "As you wish."

Then he was gone.

"Granger," Rosier moaned from against the tree. "Do something."

She barked out a laugh, and leaned her head back against the tree, feeling dizzy and confused. "I have no wand, Rosier," she drawled darkly. "You made sure of that."

"But…" He swallowed. "But you know wandless magic, right?" he asked shakily. He jerked as another howl echoed in the distance – werewolf or regular wolf, it didn't matter – it was likely too far away to be of any immediate threat to them.

Still, they were past the wards of the school. That meant they were probably a mile deep into the forest. Anything could live out here.

She closed her eyes impatiently. "Yes, Rosier. I do. But you slammed a rock into my head," she needlessly pointed out. "I might still be able to set your robes on fire from over here and laugh as you burn to death," she said nastily, hatred and anger bubbling forth from her chest, "but unfortunately I can't seem to be able to get rid of this pesky rope you've tied me up with." She gestured with her head to the tree at her back, where a shimmering green rope of magic flowed down from the trunk and attached to her bound wrists. There was only about five feet of slack.

Not quite enough for her to be able to make it over to Rosier to punch him in his stupid face.

"But that Patronus thing," he suggested, sweat pouring down his forehead despite the autumn chill. "You can cast one of those."

"Yes," she said slowly, opening her eyes and emulating Snape as best she could. "With a wand." She paused, and snorted. "A Patronus is one of the most advanced types of magicks in the world. I've done it so many times that you'd think it would be easy, but it still takes a lot of skill and a lot of good memory to fuel it. And even if I felt at the top of my game right now – which I don't, because you hit me in the goddamn head – I still probably couldn't do it wandless." She looked up to the sky, watching as a cloud obscured the moon for a moment before it drifted away. "It would be like trying to cast the killing curse without a wand," she murmured. "Harder than that, even. Light magic is more difficult than Dark magic." She swallowed. "At least, for me."

"So…"

"So we're stuck, Gavin," she responded sharply. "We're stuck until someone – or something – finds us."

He gulped. "That centaur – he – he said that help was on the way. What did he mean?"

"I don't know," she said tiredly. "Centaurs can be complicated creatures. They often speak in ways we can't interpret. I imagine he heard something. Humans, I'm hoping."

"So we wait?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes. We wait. If and when my mind clears up, I might be able to figure something out. But until that, we're screwed."

He exhaled shakily. "If we get away," he ventured slowly, his voice unsteady, "what will you do to me?"

She blinked at him. "Perhaps, Rosier," she said acidly. "You should have thought about the potential consequences before you tried to kidnap me."

"You…you said you were going to kill me."

"I did say that, yes," she said sleepily, shivering with the cold; she only wore her costume – the shoes, dress, stockings and wings the only things protecting her from the chilly night air. "But, you know, women are fickle," she said snarkily. "I might change my mind." She grinned. "Now shut up. I'm trying to think."

He was quiet for a moment or two, and then broke the silence again.

"My hand hurts."

She sighed. "Yes, Gavin," she said wearily, looking to the heavens and praying for patience. "There's an arrow in it."

"Right."


oooo

"There," Edmond said, reaching forward and grabbing a piece of orange fabric from a shrub.

Tom, snatched it from him, scowling. His anger grew by the minute.

"Just how far did he take her?" Thoros said, exasperated. "Merlin."

Tom closed his fist around the piece of Granger's dress. "He probably brought her past the wards," he said lowly. "The only people that can cross the Hogwarts wards from the outside are teachers, students, and the creatures of the forest – centaurs and werewolves and the like. Which means that he was meeting someone."

Edmond gulped, pulling at his collar. "Werewolves can get past the school wards?" he asked nervously.

"Magic doesn't always work on magical creatures like it does with us," he said impatiently. "And there are ancient magicks around Hogwarts that limit what the staff can do ward-wise." He paused. "Seriously, have none of you read 'Hogwarts: A History'?"

"I have," Conan said quietly.

"Part of it," Ambrose added.

Tom rolled his eyes. "That's comforting," he murmured sarcastically.

He tried desperately to distract himself from the rage and worry that ate at his nerves. Hermione Granger was his. If he wanted her dead, he was going to be the one to kill her. Not Gavin Rosier.

Tom was going to peel his face back from his skull.

Dolohov stopped in his tracks, holding up a hand. Tom stilled. The sixth-year pointed down at messy tracks that littered the ground. "Centaurs," he said darkly.

"Just one, looks like," Mulciber suggested quietly. "Went that way, and then turned around and retraced its steps."

Edmond let out a shaky breath. "My Lord," he said. "Not that I don't care about finding Granger – because I do, really, I do – but centaurs are another matter entirely. You know how my cousin works with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – things are really tense."

"Centaurs might be dangerous," Tom said, clenching his teeth, "but they're still only half-breeds. Six wands against a few dozen bows and arrows – I like our chances. We'll be fine."

Just as he said it, something swopped low overhead, ruffling his hair. He had an Avada Kedavra ready on the tip of his tongue, but his teeth clacked together as his eyes tracked the movement of Fawkes the phoenix, who glided through the trees on silent wings.

"Follow him," he breathed. "Quickly."

The six of them set off simultaneously, silent as the grave. Edmond finally broke the silence. "Does that mean Dumbledore's coming too?"

Tom swallowed. "I'm not a bloody seer," he murmured, refusing to admit to his discomfort. "I don't know. We'll press on anyway. After all, we aren't doing anything wrong," he continued. "We'll just claim that we panicked, and didn't even think to stop and get a teacher, that we were afraid we wouldn't have time."

Edmond cleared his throat and nodded. Tom kept his eyes on the bird above, casting a quick Lumos when the trees thickened and the light dimmed. Fawkes flapped his wings and looked back at them, and Tom would swear the phoenix glared.

Finally the bright bird took a left, and Tom turned sharply between two trees to almost stumble over a group of blooming fireflowers. Righting himself, he looked up.

Granger sat up against a tree, eyes fluttering groggily. Her dress was ripped in several places, and the knee of one of her sheer stockings looked torn. One strap of her dress had been broken, exposing a cluster of faint freckles on her shoulder. Her hair was not much messier than it was on a daily basis, but he noticed blood on her right temple and in the hair above her ear. Her hands were bound behind her by a lurid green rope that shimmered with magic.

Her eyes snapped open, hazy but a lot clearer than he had expected. "Fawkes," she cooed lovingly, smiling as the large bird pecked her gently on the nose. She seemed to notice him then, and her eyes met his. What he saw there made his stomach do something strange.

Relief. Pure relief.

"You're late," she whispered, her lips curving into a smile.

She had been expecting him. She had known he would come for her.

She did not trust him. He knew this. But she trusted him to want her. Trusted him to want her enough to brave the full moon in order to save her from what was likely to be a grisly fate.

He rolled his eyes and strode over to her, dropping down next to her and wiping blood from her face. "Are you hurt?" he asked curtly.

She leaned forward, and he brought his wand down to undo the bonds around her hands with a whispered word. She groaned, bringing her arms around to her front and rubbing at the chaffed skin of her wrists. "A bit, yeah," she said, wincing. "Got hit over the head with a rock," she said. She touched her head, and her hand came away stained with blood. "And then got kicked in the ribs for my sass." She grinned at him. "Sorry to undo your hard work, but I'm pretty sure you're going to have to heal my ribs again."

He snorted, and when she held her hand out he helped pull her to her feet, Conan coming over to support her from behind. She sucked in a breath as she put weight down on her right foot and lifted it back up immediately. "And my ankle is sprained," she said sourly.

"We'll get you to the hospital wing," he said softly.

She laughed sharply. "No hospital wing," she said with a shake of her head. "I don't want questions. Questions make murder so much harder to commit."

Tom froze as he heard a whimper come from behind him, and he followed her dark, vengeful stare to where Rosier stood slumped against a tree, covered in blood. His hand was affixed to the trunk with a massive arrow.

He narrowed his eyes. "You," he hissed lowly. He raised his wand.

"Don't touch him."

He froze. Something dark and horrible slid down his spine – he realized it was the tone of her voice. He turned to look at her.

One of the wings on the back of her costume was broken, the flame-freezing charm having long since died. With her ripped dress and bloody hands and the red stripe of paint across her eyes, she looked like some sort of demonic angel fallen from heaven strictly to avenge wrongs. Gold still glittered from her hair and temples, but the beauty of it was tainted with the crimson smears of blood.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, and Tom saw Edmond take a full step back. She stepped forward, using Avery's arm as a crutch. The sixth-year was back to his expressionless self, but Tom saw the relief in his eyes.

And the anxiety. In fact, they all looked anxious. Even Dolohov looked shifty. And that's when Tom realized that he, too, was uneasy.

"He's mine."

Tom stiffened.

"My Lord," Rosier pled, his voice hoarse with pain. "My Lord, she's lying – she's setting me up, I swear it – "

Tom silenced him with a whispered spell. Rosier opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. He turned back to Hermione.

"What happened to him?"

"You mean the arrow?" she asked blithely. "We had a visitor."

"A centaur," he said, raising his eyebrow. It was not a question, but the skepticism was plain to hear in his voice.

"Yes," she said, rubbing her left forearm as he'd discovered she did when she was thinking of the past. "Lovely fellow. Just dropped in to say hello."

He tried to tell himself that he was not in the mood for her humor. Still, he snorted. "He left you alive."

"I think he thought I was pretty," she said cutely. "I can't say the same for those two over there." She bent her head, and he looked over to where two men lay dead.

"Who?" he asked.

"Grindelwald," she said softly. "Although by the way they spoke I don't think he's the only one in the picture anymore." She gave him a pointed look, and he pulled her wand from his pocket. "Perhaps we can speak of it later. With Draco."

He nodded, his nostrils flaring when she mentioned her best friend. "Fine." He narrowed his eyes. "Rosier is my…friend," he said quietly. "I should be the one to punish him."

"Punish him?" she said humorously, her eyes full of deadly laughter. "You think I'm going to punish him?" She clicked her tongue, and held out her hand. "I'm going to kill him, Tom." She stared into his eyes for one long moment, and he felt a flash of fear within his ribcage; the same fear he'd felt the night of Slughorn's party, when she'd so ferociously hammered his shield with the raw power of her magic as her eyes had burned orange. "Give me my wand," she said lowly, "before I have Fawkes rip it from your cold, dead hand."

His temper flared, and then snapped. Quick as a snake he brought his hand up and grasped her by the throat, pulling her up onto her toes and squeezing just enough to hurt. His magic surrounded her, invaded her, held her in place as her hands came up to grab his wrist. She shuddered as his aura suffocated hers, heavy and dark and relentless.

He had given her a lot of freedom in her short time at Hogwarts. He had let her tease him, intimidate his followers, get under his skin – because she fascinated him, because he wanted her, because she was the first creature he had ever felt some sort of connection with. And because, he would grudgingly admit, there was something within her that he feared.

But he had his limits. He had been controlled, careful, had let her test the waters and wade in to disturb things. Before, her threats had been amusing, even delightful – but here, in front of his Knights, he would not, could not, tolerate them.

"Let's be clear," he said coldly, meeting her gaze to let her know he was deadly serious. "You don't tell me what to do." He narrowed his eyes. "You don't order me around like some commoner. I have been reasonably courteous to you thus far – I've given you far more respect than I have ever given anyone else before, especially a woman. And I have refrained from trying to order you about like a slave."

She swallowed, the muscle contracting under his hand. The ability to physically overpower her was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart.

"But make no mistake," he continued, tightening his grip even further until she whimpered. "You have no power over me. You don't get to decide the fate of my Knights unless I permit it. I don't try to insert myself into your affairs and control the little following you've built here, and you certainly have no right to mine." His nostrils flared. "You are, perhaps, one of the only people I would consider as my equal." He lowered his voice dangerously. "Don't push it."

She made a choked noise in her throat, but he saw what looked like satisfaction in her eyes. He loosened his grip ever so slightly so that she could speak when her skin became uncomfortably hot, but it was not painful enough to make him let go; which pleased him, because he knew that she could make it hurt enough for him to let go. Which indicated, to some extent, submission.

How did she do that, anyway?

To his surprise, her lips quirked up into a pleased smirk. "There it is," she purred lowly, whispering so that his Knights couldn't hear. "The true nature of Tom Marvolo Riddle. I was starting to get impatient, wondering when it might appear." She grinned slowly. "You let me get away with a lot more impertinence than I thought you would be able to tolerate. Still, you hold back."

Her skin heated more, enough so that he was forced to let go, the slight pain punctuated by the shock that he rightly shouldn't feel by now – he should no longer be caught off guard by her unexpected responses to their interactions. She dropped back down onto her feet and rubbed her throat, looking at Fawkes with an amused smile when he ruffled his feathers in agitation.

"Your point has been made," she said, clearing her throat to rid it of the hoarseness that came from his abuse. She would likely have bruises later. "From now on, I will temper my attitude." She held out her hand. "Still, I must insist you give me my wand."

Fawkes beat his wings threateningly, hopping up onto a tree limb only a few feet above Hermione's head. He stared at Tom with beady, intelligent eyes, and when he opened his mouth he screamed harshly. All of his Knights jumped in surprise.

"I thought the phoenix was Dumbledore's bird," he scoffed, narrowing his eyes. "And yet you claim he would do your bidding."

She cocked her head. "Yes," she said. "Fawkes may be Dumbledore's familiar," she whispered, stepping closer to him so that they were nearly nose-to-nose, "but he is, above all, loyal to me."

He watched in fascination as those mind-boggling colors swirled into her eyes again until they burned like coals, the same reddish-orange he'd seen in them the last time she had been this angry.

"And if I asked him to claw Mulciber's out," she said, "he would. And if I asked him to drop Avery into the Black Lake, he would do so." Conan shivered from behind her, until she reached back to lay a comforting hand on his arm; he went still instantly, and Tom marveled at her ability to calm with just a touch. "And if I asked him to set Nott on fire, he wouldn't hesitate," she continued. "And if I asked him to tear Lestrange's throat out with his beak he would. And if I asked him to disembowel Dolohov with his talons, he would do so with the utmost haste." She smiled a terrible smile. When she reached down to gently take her wand from his hand, he let her, giving her silent permission to do as she pleased.

"Of course," she said quietly, "I would never ask him to do those things." She paused. "Phoenixes have pure souls. It would be a sin to taint something so lovely with the ugliness of Death. I, however," she said, running her hands over her wand lovingly, "have no such restraints."

Quick as lightning, she pointed her wand at Rosier, lifted Tom's silencing spell, and whispered, "Crucio."

Rosier squealed like a stuck pig, writhing against the tree as she tortured him, twisting her wand into a graceful arc and watching in delight as his body followed, bowing under her ministrations. It was over as soon as it had begun, and she stalked towards the weeping blond, grabbing the arrow that pinned him to the tree and yanking it out, the muscles in her arm rippling with the effort.

He dropped to his knees at her feet.

"Please," he said, his voice cracking. "Please, please, I'm sorry – I'm sorry – "

"I vaguely remember those very words coming out of your mouth when I carved you up on the floor of Tom's common room," she said with narrowed eyes, punctuating her statement with a sharp kick to his chin. He flew backwards, landing hard on the ground. She dug her heel into his throat, and he choked. She bared her teeth in a chilling caricature of a smile. "And yet you didn't seem to learn the lesson that I so hoped you would."

She hit him with the curse again, and Rosier screamed a second time. She turned back to Tom, and he stood stock still, utterly unable to move or do anything when she held him under her wild coquelicot stare. "Will you do me a favor, Tom?" she asked quietly.

It was only when he saw tears gleam in her eyes that he nodded. "Perhaps."

"Put up a silencing charm?" she asked.

He did so immediately, unable to shake her enchantment of him, the beauty and power that wrapped around his very soul and squeezed until he could barely breathe. "What else?"

She looked at him, and then back at the pale faces of his Knights. "Don't tell Draco?" she said quietly.

"What are you going to do to him, Granger?" Edmond asked, his skin ashen as he watched his housemate writhe under her spell. Tom knew Edmond had no love for Gavin – quite the opposite, actually – but he still looked perturbed.

"I'm going to kill him, Edmond," she said evening, her gaze still like hot-fired steel as she stared at the slight brunette. She looked from him to Mulciber, from Mulicber to Dolohov, from Dolohov to Avery, and then from Avery to Nott. "Anyone with a weak stomach should leave now," she said firmly. "Anyone that might be tempted to run their mouth should go to Tom to get their memory wiped."

No one moved. She cocked her head. "No one will be judged by me or anyone else if they feel the need to go." Still no one shifted, not even an inch. She nodded.

Finally she looked to Tom. "If you have anything to say," she said seriously, "you should say it. If you want to appeal for Rosier's life, you should do it now." She lifted the torture spell, and Gavin collapsed, boneless. She walked to Tom, standing close to him again.

"I may never call you 'My Lord,'" she whispered softly, her voice low but still loud enough for his Knights to hear in the still, eerie silence of the forest. "But I will defer to your judgment, at least this once." She stared up into his eyes, and the orange faded, swirling into crimson-tinged brown. Her stare was entirely sane; it was part of what frightened him. It was part of what fascinated him. "If you want him to live," she said, her voice steady and clear, "say so. And I'll stop. I'll wipe his memory, and heal his hurts, and send him off to bed. If that's what you want."

All of the emotions that had been raging inside him – anger for her impertinence, fear for her threats, awe for her power – all came to a halt as desire, rich and heady, pounded through his body like a shockwave. She could do anything. She could try to kill them all, burn down the forest, Avada him – and though he knew he couldn't be killed, per say, it still didn't mean he wanted to have to use his horcruxes if he didn't have to.

Instead, she was again deferring to him – but without being threatened to do so. In front of his Knights. He wasn't sure if it was for their benefit, so that he wouldn't lose face with them, or if it was out of genuine respect for his authority – he didn't care. Either way, it was special. This was not a woman who submitted. Oh, he suspected that she would be submissive once he got her into bed – but she was not one who was easily cowed or pulled into line. Druella's little prank earlier tonight proved that much. But she was baring her throat to him, promising him her obedience (albeit temporarily), surrendering to his will regarding an issue that she was obviously extremely passionate about.

It was more intoxicating than any physical desire he could ever feel for her. It was more intoxicating than when he had gripped her by the throat, because this was entirely unprovoked, entirely voluntary. She was surrendering some of her pride to him of her own volition, and something deep within him twanged, something that felt like pure triumph.

He breathed in heavily, and then brought a finger up to trace the scar on her cheek. "You never told us how you got this one," he said.

She sighed. "I got slapped across the face by a man with a big, nasty ring on his finger," she answered. "The one who was fond of cleated boots."

He cocked his head. "Will it be painful?" he asked, referring back to the matter at hand.

"Very," she said succinctly.

"Will you teach me the spell?"

"No," she said quietly. "Any other one but this one."

He narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps we can renegotiate later."

She swallowed. "I doubt it," she said, her eyes haunted and full of memory. "This is one spell I will take to the grave."

He stepped back from her. "We'll see," he hedged, slipping his hands into his pockets. He nodded towards Rosier, who was lying prostrate on the ground, breathing heavily. "By all means."

Her smile was the wickedest thing he had ever seen. He was grateful for his cloak, because all of the blood in his head rushed south to his cock, and he was rock hard in seconds.

He cursed under his breath, turning to walk back to where his minions stood, all looking sufficiently uneasy. Dolohov alone looked more curious than troubled. Conan's face had slid back into its usual indifference, but he thought there was just a spark of reverent fear in his flat blue eyes.

All of his Knights turned to look at him briefly as he came to stand next to them. He smiled mildly. "Now do you see why I want her?" he said lowly.

They all nodded. Dolohov just watched her, his head cocked in fascination.

They all swiveled to watch as Rosier rolled to his knees and looked up at his executioner in abject terror. His gaze turned to Tom. "Please, My Lord," he said hoarsely. "Please."

It was probably the closest Tom had ever come to feeling pity for someone. He stared back at the blond flatly. "You did this to yourself, Gavin," he said with a shake of his head. "I could save you, but what kind of example would that set?" he said quietly. "She did give you ample warning."

"You aren't really going to strangle him with his own intestines, are you?" said Edmond, his voice just shy of becoming a squeak.

She turned to him and grinned just as she grabbed a weak Rosier by the hair and slammed his face into a tree. "Good memory, Lestrange," she said with a congratulatory smile as Rosier yelped. Edmond shifted, and Tom watched in amusement as a variety of emotions played across his Knight's face: fear, anxiety, and then pleasure at being on the receiving end of her praise.

She was perfect. And she was Tom's.

It didn't matter what she said – she was his. Perhaps not in the way he originally intended. Perhaps she would not wear his initials on her skin as Rosier did, or call him "My Lord," or follow whatever orders he gave – but she had submitted to him this once, in an important way, in front of his followers, and that was enough. That was as close as he imagined she would ever come to admitting that she was his.

He was not delusional. He knew she would continue to be something of a thorn in his side, and that some of their political ideals clashed as starkly as night and day. He knew that he couldn't trust her. He knew that she wouldn't trust him. And he still needed to know more about her; the mystery surrounding her and Mallery was thrilling, to be sure, but it was also dangerous. Not knowing was a dangerous thing. And he knew that she had secrets. Secrets that could be trouble.

But when he looked into her eyes, the power he saw, the emotion, the confidence – that was all real. The secret smile she used when she was laughing at someone else's expense – she shared that with him. When she had taken the youngest Black aside to threaten him earlier, she had not pulled away from Tom. And when Thoros had slipped up and called him "My Lord" earlier at the ball, she had looked intrigued, amused – not alarmed or offended, not even surprised. When her magic had encountered his for the first time, and for every time thereafter, she had not recoiled. She had sought it out, the darkness of her own magic recognizing a kindred spirit in his.

Her conscience might be a problem, of course.

He thought back to Diagon Alley.

I like that he has no conscience, he'd said about Dolohov. That can be useful.

Or that can be dangerous, she'd said.

He thought of the way she had reacted during their first real conversation when he'd threatened Mallery – how she had unleashed her magic into the air and had come snarling to Draco's defense. He'd thought, at the time, that it was pathetic – that it was a weakness. But her power had been anything but weak as it had licked across his skin.

Maybe her conscience would be a problem – but he wondered if it might also be a source of strength. None of his Knights had a very developed sense of compassion, but, despite her ruthlessness in certain situations, she was generally kind. It could provide some contrast – could end up filling a gap in his entourage; a gap that had not occurred to him before.

Something to think about, perhaps.

"But no," she said, answering Edmond's nervous question. "Something far worse."

"Please," Gavin choked out, his face bleeding from where she had bashed it against the rough bark of a tree trunk. "Please don't. Please. You said you would change your mind –"

"I said I might change my mind," she corrected mildly. "Not that I would."

"Please!" he screamed as she yanked him around with a grip on his hair, his body trembling and weak from the Cruciatus. "Please, forgive me."

She smiled and let him go, and he looked up at her hopefully from his knees, his face bloody and tear-streaked. His lip trembled.

"I forgive you, Gavin," she said quietly. He sucked in a breath. "After all, nothing inspires forgiveness quite like revenge." She pointed her wand, and his face crumpled.

"Probilium."

oooo


*Shivers*

I kind of just freaked myself out a little bit with my own characterization of Hermione. It's weird, I've been planning this scene in my mind for a long time, but actually writing it was super creepy. I felt like a cold-hearted bitch.

Snippet from the next chapter:

She pulled back, the strange softness of his lips making her mind buzz. The expression on his face was inscrutable, unbreakable, but his eyes were hazy and hot with the kind of desire that went far beyond the physical. The intensity of it frightened her.

Also, I got a comment that Hermione's character seemed contrived. It is very much so, to an extent. She is definitely out of character. I took a lot of creative license with her personality. I have other stories in the works (whether they've been put onto paper or not) where she is far more like her character in the books/movies, because in those stories I don't stray as far away from canon as I did with this one. So anyways. I really appreciate that guest reviewer for pointing it out, and I am not at all offended because it is in fact true. So thank you! Polite criticism is always welcome (and this person was polite; there was no nastiness in the tone of the message, just kind of a blunt realism, which I appreciate). I know that there are a lot of inconsistencies in the story.

Anyway. Next chapter will be up hopefully in the next week.

Please, please, please please please review. I will love you forever if you just drop a line in the box.

Giraffe :)