I really appreciate my new friend "Old Fan" who is a guest reviewer. Very honest and open, and I also appreciate that he/she is reviewing every chapter as he/she goes. I know that is tiresome for many people, but I love it when I continue to get reviews on old chapters. Also, Old Fan, I do know that there is a difference between eidetic and photographic memories; I happened to look it up after I wrote most of this story. Whoops. I also read that true photographic memory hasn't actually been proved to exist, and that eidetic memory is only seen for a brief time with children (I know we all love Criminal Minds, but, alas, it isn't up to speed).
So in light of that new information…just pretend. Magic, you know? Crazy stuff. And sometimes I unfortunately cave to the plot armor cliché. It just happens to be convenient to the story.
For those of you who were wondering: I got the job! I officially started training with Frontier Airlines in July, and now I have been on the job for about two months. So when you are flying, or just stuck at an airport, keep in mind that I could be there with you—and you wouldn't even know it! That's wild.
Also, is anybody here from Colorado? I just moved from Raleigh to Denver, and it's a doozy. It's so different and strange. And people talk funny. I feel like I'm in Canada sometimes. I could use some help here, guys! Any advice?
oooo
"Legilimens."
Hermione fell into Mulciber's flat green eyes and straight through to his brain. He was a fairly sharp young man, she decided. His mind jerked at the intrusion, as if tempted to throw shields up. She sensed his restraint, and began to navigate the dimly lit corridors of his psyche.
Though it was set down into the dark recesses of his brain, the box of pain was not hard to find. She'd put it there, after all. The hard part would be removing it entirely. She'd known going in that it wasn't going to be perfect. She inspected the box, found its tethers, and began to unravel the ropes that bound it to the walls of Mulciber's brain.
She had no sense of time. At one point she thought she heard Draco say, "You okay?" to which she replied, "Yeah, I'm good." But she was deep, deep in Ambrose's psyche, and it was even more difficult than being inside an unconscious brain, if that was possible. She could feel the fatigue start to set in, feel herself get sluggish. She plucked at the ropes more urgently, and finally, just as she thought she might have to pull out and try again later, she managed to pry the box free and rip it out of his mind.
There was blinding pain for a moment—the distinctive, all-over pain of the Cruciatus. She squeezed her eyes closed, keeping a firm grip on the box, and dissolved it within her own mind. As it faded into nothing, she slumped, feeling drained.
"I got most of it," she panted, running a hand through her tumultuous hair. She met Ambrose's eyes once more, and this time there were traces of fear and respect, but not the same abject terror that had been there before. "Some of it lingered. It was kind of like trying to pull blowing gum from a shoe. Some of it clung." She patted his cheek, and she liked the way he stiffened—likely more so disgust and discomfort now than horror. "Maybe at some point Tom or one of us can go back in and try to scrub the rest away." She cocked her head. "But then again, it might be good for you to have a reminder," she said with a mean smirk. "That way you'll think twice before sneaking around in other people's business."
She stood, and stretched. Mulciber's eyes were guarded, no longer open as they had been in her presence before. On one hand, she was going to miss the power she'd had over him. He'd just become more of a threat to her. But if she was going to try to worm her way deeper into this little group, she was going to have to deal with Ambrose a different way. She needed him to be able to function around her. And it went a long way towards fortifying her bridge with Riddle.
She was not naturally very patient, but she could be when it mattered. She could be patient when she was brewing an important potion. She could be patient when dealing with difficult people. Patience hurt, but she could manage it just fine. And she was certainly capable of being patient when it came to her mission.
Which is what, exactly? a quiet voice in her head asked. Kill Riddle? Don't kill Riddle? Seduce him? Let him seduce you? Instate him as Minister of Magic? Throw him in Azkaban? What precisely is your plan, Hermione?
Right now, it was simply to figure him out. She'd thought she'd had him all figured out. She had, as was typical, been arrogant with her assumptions. She had thought, since she'd known him in a different time, that she would know how to deal with him. That was the sort of egotism that would get her killed, one of these days.
It's not all about you, Hermione, Gemma Farley had once snapped at her. Get over yourself, and please, do us all a favor: let some of the hot air out of that overblown ego of yours.
And Hermione had. Farley had never been her favorite—she was Slytherin to the core, and hadn't learned how to let go of some of the less desirable traits of her former house whilst trying to wage a war. But then again, Hermione suffered from the same problem. Despite some Ravenclaw traits (she had almost been a hatstall during her first sorting; and she had been a hatstall for her second sorting, the second longest in history, she'd discovered) and some Slytherin sensibilities, she was, first and foremost, a Gryffindor. She always had been, and she always would be.
At your core, you are the same, the Sorting Hat had said to her. Fire and ice—blazing passion forever warring with cool reason. Brave, willing to fight for what is right and good and pure…but perhaps at times not so right and good and pure yourself. A cruel vindictive streak, even as a child, despite the best of intentions. A thirst for justice that all too often gives way to vengeance. You have an incredible, immense kind of darkness—born of pain and sadness and fear.
But you are not darkness yourself, it had countered. You are merely human—despite the not-so-human element to your being (a recent development, I sense)—and the human soul is wrought with complexities and conflict. It is the fate of every human to do battle with oneself. Your battle just happens to have a greater impact on the world at large than most are able to claim. You are one of few extraordinary beings that walk the earth. A burden, yes. But your responsibility nonetheless.
And forgive me, my dear girl, but you aren't the kind of person that shirks responsibility. And I think you'd do that best from SLYTHER- No? All right, all right, if you insist. Then let's go with GRYFFINDOR!
She'd sat and listened to that infernal hat for over eight minutes. When it had started to put her in Slytherin, she had nearly reached up and strangled it.
She turned to Thoros, Edmond, and Dolohov, who were staring at her inscrutably. "Would the three of you be so kind as to escort Ambrose back to his dorm?" she asked.
Well, it wasn't a request—she'd just phrased it like one. But all three of them were sharp enough to pick up on the subtle tone that suggested that it was not up for debate. Thoros was quick to obey, coming over to help haul a weak and sweaty Mulciber up from the couch. Dolohov crossed his arms and sneered, but he grabbed Ambrose's cloak and strolled unhurriedly to the portrait door. Edmond inclined his head to her in silent albeit reluctant respect, and she nodded back, thanking him with her eyes.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, she whirled around, looked up at the closed door of Tom's bedroom, and cast a quick Muffliato around the sitting area. Then she fell back onto the couch, her limbs as unsteady as marmalade on a hot day.
"How long was I in there?" she asked, staring up at the ceiling and putting her feet on Draco's lap.
"About twenty minutes, give or take," Draco answered, not looking up from his Transfiguration textbook.
"Ugh," she groaned, putting a hand on her forehead. "My brain feels like it's about to explode. Conan, be a dear and get me a cup of tea from the tray over there?" she asked sweetly. "Then pull your chair up over here. We need to talk."
He rose obediently, and moved to fix her tea. All the while she did not move, and Draco levitated Conan's chair over to the edge of the couch where she rested her head. The boy came back with a cup of herbal, stirring a bit of honey into it. It would go a long way toward alleviating her headache. She propped herself up against the arm of the sofa, and looked at him searchingly.
"What happened?"
"I assume Muffliato is a muffling spell?" he asked quietly, looking furtively towards the bedroom door.
"An effective one, don't worry," she confirmed. "I can teach it to you later, if you like." Draco was silent, but he shifted in his seat in a way that she knew meant he was uncomfortable with her sharing such a secret. Muffliato wouldn't be invented for another thirty years, after all. Still. Conan Avery was a locked vault. And she'd stolen the key from right under Tom's nose, and he hadn't even noticed.
"I'm sure it could come in handy," he said evenly. "Especially while withholding information from the most dangerous person we know. I didn't tell him everything," he continued, locking eyes with her. "Just the gist of it."
She gestured for him to continue, and he told her about his dreams, about the overwhelming urge to go look behind that column. About how he'd gone straight to Tom after he'd found her wand, and that they'd set out shortly after to find her.
"He thinks they were visions of some kind," Conan said finally. "That I might have seer powers." He cleared his throat, and looked between them. "But you and I know that's not what it was."
"What was it?" she asked patiently, encouragingly. She cocked her head. "Tell me what you think."
"I saw the phoenix," he said slowly. He looked unsure. "Its eyes. And then when I saw it with you in the forest, I made the connection." He paused. "You have some sort of…mind meld?" he hedged.
Hermione sighed. "It's more than that," she said tiredly. "But I think that, since the two of us have connected through Legilimency, and Fawkes is connected with me, that he was able to reach you telepathically. I imagine he might've tried Draco, but the two of us haven't been inside each other's heads in years. And he was…busy," she finished with a smirk, referring to Draco's nighttime activities.
(She was not jealous. She wasn't.)
"So Fawkes knew what had happened to you and tapped into my brain for help?" he asked. "Why not tell Dumbledore?"
"Because the Fawkes inside of me does not belong to Dumbledore, and had no way to connect with him," she said quietly. "He's…separate. A different entity, from the physical manifestation that you know. He wouldn't want Dumbledore involved."
"Hermione," Draco warned lowly.
"What?" she asked exasperatedly. "I can't keep all these secrets forever, Draco. And I'd rather tell them to the one person whose brain I know is impenetrable. He's not going to go blab to Tom."
"You said 'inside of you,'" Conan interjected quietly, unbothered by the tension between them. "How? How can Fawkes exist in physical form, but also be a part of you at the same time?"
"Granger," Draco barked, looking at her sharply. "If you open this door, there's no going back."
"No," she murmured. "No, there isn't." She looked into the serious grey eyes of her best and last true friend. "But if we can't figure out this curse that's killing you, then you will die, Draco," she said, miraculously keeping her voice steady. "And I don't want to be alone," she said firmly. "I don't. I can't." She swallowed. "There are only a handful of people that I know here that I trust enough with knowledge like this," she continued, "and only two of that handful know how to keep Tom Riddle and any other unsavory characters out of their heads. One of them is here," she said, patting Conan on the knee familiarly, "and one of them is preparing for the Transfiguration class he has this afternoon."
"Dumbledore," Avery mumbled under his breath. He was looking at her curiously. He didn't seem shocked by the news of Draco's true condition. She wondered if it was because he'd heard it from Riddle, or if he was just smart enough to have figured it out or smooth enough to hide his reaction.
"It's a risk," Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes. "An unnecessary one. You're jeopardizing your existence here. Jeopardizing your chance to change things."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic," he said impatiently, his voice starting to rise, "I'm being smart! If you would use that impressive brain of yours for the first time since we've landed in this bloody place, you'd see that!"
She glared at him. "What would you have me do, then?" she asked scathingly. "What's your solution, O Wise One?"
Draco shrugged, and the fight bled out of his eyes only to be replaced with uncertainty and worry. "Obliviate him?" he said, looking at Avery regretfully.
"Absolutely not," she said, lifting her chin. Draco closed his eyes in defeat. He knew when she had made up her mind about something. When the chin was lifted in defiance, there was no going back. "I'm not going to do such a thing to someone I care about."
"You'd be protecting him," Draco said tiredly. He looked to Avery. "The more you know, the bigger the danger."
Avery looked at them both with unreadable blue eyes. His lightly freckled nose twitched. "You aren't from China, are you?"
They both swallowed nervously. She leaned her head back onto the couch armrest and looked up to the ceiling.
"No," she answered. "We're from here."
"You went to Hogwarts," he said slowly. It was not a question.
"Yes," she confirmed quietly.
"You know things about Riddle," he said again, looking determined. "You know him."
"Yes," Hermione said, chewing her lower lip and looking towards the bedroom door.
"And Fawkes lives inside you," he said, pointing down to where the skin of her hands flushed orange for a split second, "but he also lives in Dumbledore's office."
"True," she said. "All of that is true."
"Essentially, you're not from this time," he said evenly. There was not a trace of excitement or disbelief on his face. It was entirely blank. "You came from the future."
Draco sighed in defeat, and dropped his head into his hands with a groan that verified Avery's statement more soundly than any words could have. Hermione tapped her fingers against the fabric of the couch.
"Why?"
Draco's head whipped up, and he snarled at the boy in an uncharacteristic display of temper. "It wasn't exactly intentional, was it?" he said heatedly. "Blasted back here by that bloody bird, doomed to a life of secrets and looking over our shoulder," he said. "Hermione having to watch her tongue every time she says my name in case 'Malfoy' accidentally slips out. It makes me fucking sick."
"Now who's over-sharing?" Hermione asked sullenly under her breath.
Conan did not look at all surprised. He just nodded his head. "I had wondered," he said quietly. "It passed with Agricola—I could overlook it as a weird coincidence. But put you next to Abraxas, and it's a dead give away. I remember him from school before he graduated. You're his son?"
"Grandson," Draco spat out. He looked at Hermione, and she could see the fury in his eyes. She saw a flicker of relief there, too. Secrets were heavy to carry. "We need to discuss this somewhere else," he said lowly. "The common room of the man who would benefit the most from this information is doing his bloody Charms homework upstairs, or some other rubbish," he sneered, waving a hand to indicate his utter disdain.
It was hard to reconcile, sometimes, she knew. It was easier for her—she'd compartmentalized in such a way that Tom Riddle was not the Lord Voldemort she had known in their timeline. Draco thought she was just trying to justify her connection with the future Dark Lord. Maybe he was partially right. But Draco couldn't do the same thing. He couldn't separate this teenager from the monster that still appeared in the shape of any boggart he came across.
"Then we'll wait, and finish up later," Avery said, his voice as smooth and polished as glass. She recognized the spark of curiosity, that greed for knowledge that she knew sat heavy in the chest—something she was extremely familiar with. "I can wait."
"How gracious of you," Malfoy snarked. Hermione jabbed her heel down on his thigh. He lowered his eyes to the floor. The stress was plain to see in every line of his face.
"The two of us have a meeting tonight," Hermione said. "With the two vampires that were at Slughorn's party. Before that, I need to take a walk in the forest," she continued. "I've got to talk to the centaurs."
Draco snorted, and opened his mouth to retort. She cut him off. "They won't hurt me," she said confidently. "I'm apparently part of some prophecy of theirs. But I need to know."
"And before that, we have classes," Avery said.
"I'll tell him," Draco blurted, sounding bitter. "You go have your little meeting in the forest—they'll put an arrow in me as soon as I'm spotted—and I'll tell him everything. Everything, Granger. Now that you've opened this door, there's no going back," he warned. "No point in holding back now."
"I'll leave you my purple bag," she said mildly. "Your pensieve is in the vault. I've got about two hundred memories there: mine, Harry's, and a few others mixed in. They're all labeled."
"Yes, I know," he said shortly. "Some of them are mine."
"Then you shouldn't have too much trouble finding them," she said coolly. "Take him down with you," she continued, jerking her head in Conan's direction. "And tell him about our plans."
"Your plans," he said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. "I'll be dead by Yule, remember?"
She went to open her mouth, and he cut her off. "I need to take a walk. I'll be back in a few minutes." He looked at Avery coolly. "If I don't see you again in private today, meet me in my room at six. The password is 'Pansy.' Don't be late."
She watched him go, and shook her head in a mixture of sorrow and amusement as he strode through the door and closed it very softly behind him. She would have slammed it. Harry certainly would have. Most people would, in a fit of frustration or anger. But not Malfoy. He was far too composed for such a childish display.
It was good to have some things that you could count on, she thought.
"He's not happy about this," Avery said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair.
"No," she confirmed. "He's not. He thinks I'm reckless. Foolish."
"He was a Slytherin." It was not a question.
"Well spotted," she said with a wry grin. "Slytherin to the core, that one. But brave, too. Remarkably brave." She sighed. "It never took much for me to be brave," she said quietly, her voice practically a whisper. "Not really. It was always natural, always expected—I was best friends with the bravest, most important man in the world, and we were raised together in school as Gryffindors. It was easy to just charge in, no matter the consequences. It's still easy," she continued, "despite how long we've been at war. Despite how jaded and angry and fearful we all became. It was just how we did things. Habit." She paused, took a quivering breath. "It's not like that for Draco. Perhaps that's why it's even more impressive. Working undercover for a year—none of us had any idea—and then throwing himself into the midst of a bunch of loud, headstrong Gryffindors with the constant urge to just throw caution to the wind and tear off after the bad guys. That sort of thing drives Malfoy crazy. He likes to have a plan. So do I, actually—but I have a harder time actually sticking to it."
She sat up, and pushed her palms down over her hair. It seemed especially large today. "But anyway," she said. "Don't worry, he's not going to take you down into my extended bag and then kill you and stash your body down there," she said casually. "He's invested, now. He hates me, at the moment, but he's caved. I doubt he'll be excited about it, though, so try not to do anything that he might think is annoying."
"I'll keep that in mind," he said dryly. "Can you teach me that spell while we wait for Riddle to come back down and for Mallery—Malfoy—whatever—to come back?"
She smiled at him, and waved her wand to dispel the charm around them. Immediately the air felt just a bit lighter, a bit fresher. "This was the creation of my old Potions professor," she said, smiling sadly. "The same one who taught me Occlumency, and was responsible for much of my initial training in the more serious Dark Arts —and their defenses. He made up several spells I'm quite fond of. He was very bright, and also very brave. Like Draco," she said, indicating that Snape had been a Slytherin without saying it outright. Tom could choose that very moment to burst through the door—now that the spell was no longer active, they needed to be careful about what they said.
She held up her wand at an angle. "Now. Hold your wand out like this…"
oooo
"I want to know what you're up to."
Draco rolled his eyes. "You make it sound like we're two mischievous children planning some kind of prank," he drawled, looking at the young Lord Voldemort with thinly veiled impatience. He was ready to get out of here. Tom Riddle made him angry, and his walk earlier that morning hadn't done much to clear his head. Also, the sexual tension in the room was thick enough that he was afraid he wouldn't even be able to make it to the door. And it was disconcerting. He wasn't sure how to process this new facet of Hermione and Riddle's relationship.
Tom stared at him. "Don't try to brush me off," he warned, his eyes narrowing. "What are your plans?"
Hermione looked at Draco askance. He blinked. Throw him a bone, he thought, hoping that she got what he was trying to say. They had learned long ago to communicate wordlessly when the occasion called for it.
"We're just trying to gain influence in the Ministry," Hermione said, her tone of voice indicating that it was no big deal. "There are some issues with the system. We're trying to form connections, so that when the time comes for reformation, we can push it in a particular direction. It'll be a slow process. We're hardly going to go in wands blazing to try to take over or anything. We're not here to wage another war."
His nostrils flared. "And I assume these plans include changing policies regarding women in the workplace?" he asked.
Draco could hear the disdain in his voice. He tried to match it—he channeled Snape. By the way Hermione's eyes danced with amusement, he succeeded. "Among other things."
"Please tell me you don't have a problem with that," Hermione said acerbically. "I mean, honestly, can you imagine me working as a bloody secretary somewhere? Or, worse, being a housewife?" She grimaced.
"No," Tom said slowly, carefully, "but you are the exception to the rule."
"And what about Raven?" Hermione said, narrowing her eyes. "What about Pepper Peabody, and Bertha Higgs, and Zuri Rubright, and a whole host of other women in this school that are bright and powerful and have extraordinary potential?"
His best friend leaned forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees and staring dead into Riddle's eyes. They were dark, fathomless, black as night with the faintest trace of grey-green-blue. "Listen," she said lowly. "We know you're a collector. We know, like Slughorn, that you like to have all the right connections. We're the same way. It pays to know important people, powerful people, rich people, smart people. But surely you realize how much you waste by overlooking half of the population?"
He was silent. Draco imagined that his brain was still trying to catch up, that his thought processes were still sluggish and achy. "I've…started to pay more attention," he said, his voice and face betraying no emotion. "Ever since you've been at Hogwarts, I've started to pay more attention. Still, old habits die hard."
"But when they do die, they are obliterated," Draco said astutely. "As I said, I was a proponent of blood prejudice growing up," he continued. "When that illusion was shattered, it was gone. Dead. Not even a hint of judgment anymore. Not when I had muggleborns watching my back and saving my life and sacrificing themselves," he said. "Not when I saw women—and not just Hermione—beat the snot out of grown men with and without magic. Everything was turned on its head. And I fell hard on my face." He shrugged. "I imagine, you being as intelligent as you are, that it won't take long for you to fall out. I would be surprised if you didn't. As Hermione said, only idiots hang onto ideals and opinions when faced with hard fact."
He could tell that Hermione wanted to laugh. It was a clever game—one that Draco excelled at.
You're such a manipulative bastard, her eyes seemed to say.
It was interesting—he imagined that Tom knew he was being manipulated, on some level. That he'd picked up on Draco's words, his flattery, followed swiftly by condemnation. But Draco could see the cogs whirring in his mind. And even though Riddle probably knew he was being manipulated, the words still got under his skin.
He knew that they were right. They knew that he knew that they were right. He was not, in fact, an idiot. A prejudiced, greedy, psychopathic git, maybe, but not stupid. Rather, one of the smartest people they had ever known. But Riddle had allowed emotion to cloud his judgment—his experience with his family (or lack thereof) tainting the magnificent, extraordinary mind that they admired and feared and pitied in equal measure.
He didn't think Tom would appreciate them pointing that out, however. So he didn't say anything. Maybe later, when Hermione had wormed her way in closer, she could try to tell him something to that effect.
Later, when he was dead and gone.
"I think we should put our heads together, so to speak," Tom said. He laced his fingers together, his face carefully blank. This was the Tom Riddle that Draco had always pictured in his mind: the cool, calm, dangerous man that gave nothing away. Not the reluctantly emotional teenager still clinging to human weaknesses, and not the terrifying, unstable madman from his past. This was the man that would charismatically gather followers over decades—the man that would recruit Draco's own father, among many others. People who would be seduced by the prospect of a new world order: one in which purebloods (and select halfbloods that were worthy) sat at the top and ruled wizardkind. One that would rapidly deteriorate into violence and elimination.
Draco remembered reading about a muggle named Hitler, once. He'd been so fascinated with the story that he'd asked Hermione more about it. She'd proceeded to tell him more, and handed him multiple history books on the subject. And with each passing text, he'd become more and more disturbed.
The entire premise of the Holocaust had started very similarly to Tom Riddle's goals. It had begun with sanctions on the Jews, with the idea that Jews were lesser beings, responsible for all the ails that plagued Germany as a result of the first World War; that they were a plight on Europe's population, something to be heavily policed and controlled and limited. Ideas of sterilization were thrown into the mix—that the current generation of Jews should be the last generation, and to just let them die out over time. Many were forced into labor camps to support the rapidly expanding Nazi party and their war against the Allies. Some were evacuated to outside countries, foisted onto other governments as if they were some great burden.
Then "evacuation" took on a new meaning; it started to look more like "extermination." It began with large-scale shootings in various villages across Nazi-occupied Europe, and bodies dumped into mass graves. Then trucks that were sealed with a couple dozen people inside, their carbon monoxide fumes simply diverted back into the truck. Then on a larger scale: buildings were raised, camps erected around them, people stripped and ushered into a huge "shower" that ended with pink bodies being hauled out and burned in industrial-grade crematoriums.
How had it gotten to that point? How had the original notion of "these people are inferior" been turned into "these people need to be completely wiped from the face of the earth?"
It was amazing, how quickly a terrible idea built on prejudice could evolve into something so much more monstrous. How easily a population originally intended to simply be "second class citizens," ruled over by the "superior" race, could turn into a group of people that was practically subhuman, not even worthy of living.
And wasn't that exactly what had happened in the wizarding world in their time? Wasn't that exactly what had happened under Lord Voldemort's reign? Wasn't that exactly what they were all trying to prevent now in this timeline, with Grindelwald?
Grindelwald claimed he wanted to rule benevolently over Muggles. But how quickly would that benevolence turn into horrifying acts of atrocity? How quickly would the movement pick up steam and end with muggles being rounded up and slaughtered with quick Avada Kedavras? How easy would it be to incinerate their lifeless bodies until nothing but ash remained? How much time would it take before muggleborns were lumped in with their families—no longer seen as second to purebloods and halfbloods, but as undeserving of life as their parents?
The prospect of that reality was exactly why he'd spent the last six years of his life fighting.
Lucius would have called Draco soft. Draco called it having a conscience.
"And what about blood prejudice?" Hermione asked in response to Riddle's suggestion. Her eyes were cool, her face like stone. "Is that something that you'd negotiate with us on in the future?"
"Negotiation is always an option," Tom said silkily. "I've opened my mind to alternatives. However," he said, reaching forward to pour himself a cup of Earl Grey, "keep in mind that money and influence are needed to make changes in government. And in the current political climate, that means purebloods. The Sacred Twenty-Eight, to be exact."
"Influence will be an uphill battle, yes," Draco said. "Why do you think Hermione has been working so hard to make inroads amongst some of the students here? You've limited yourself in your endeavors, Riddle. You've focused within your own house—and, as we just brought up moments ago, you've overlooked the female population. It's true: patriarchs don't listen as much to daughters as they do to sons, especially their firstborns. But mothers listen to daughters, and you'd be a fool to think that men don't listen to their wives."
"Happy wife, happy life," Hermione murmured into her coffee with a smirk. "Plus, there are certain families that only have daughters," she continued. "Primrose Selwyn, for example. Now, her father has a brother, who has a son to continue the family name; but Leonard Selwyn only has Primrose, and he dotes on her. Violet Greengrass has a brother who's a year her senior, but he's not very bright, and their father knows it. He doesn't have a great amount of regard for women, and wouldn't think twice about marrying either of his daughters off to the most advantageous suitors, but Violet has his ear nonetheless because she's undoubtedly his most capable child, and isn't prone to embarrassing him like her two idiotic siblings. And Raven, though she despises her father, is very close to her mother, who I hear is a formidable woman." She broke a piece off of a croissant, fondled it idly before popping it in her mouth. "Your little posse of Slytherins is painfully small, and their families only have part of the market cornered, so to speak."
"The Blacks and the Malfoys are the most powerful families within the Sacred Twenty-Eight—within the Ministry, period," Draco said. "Abraxas graduated when you were a second year – you don't have standing with him, and his father isn't willing to commit to much of anything. And none of the Black children suit your purposes. Alphard is soft. Cygnus is arrogant, and shortsighted. Orion has potential, but he's young yet, and difficult to read. Walburga is a woman, and has no desire to break the mold; and is more than a little unstable. Lucretia is besotted with Ignatius Prewett, and he hasn't got the makings of a politician. Pollux Black and Agricola Malfoy are interested in you based on your abilities and charisma. They think they can collect you, groom you to suit their purposes—all the while unaware that you are collecting them."
Riddle's mouth curved into a smile. "Very astute, Mister Mallery."
"And as to money," Draco continued, meeting the other man's dark stare, "that's not an issue. If the three of us—and then the two of you, after I'm gone—can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement and put some sort of plan into implementation, then you'll have our backing," he said. "We've got enough money between the two of us to challenge most of the people that might be a problem; not to mention the potential help of some of the friends we've made here—rich pureblooded children often have their own Gringotts accounts." He spoke from personal experience. "Now, if Black and Malfoy put their heads together, as they're known to do, then we won't be able to 'out-money' them, so to speak."
"But split them up…" Hermione suggested with a grin. "Divide and conquer. Agricola has already done half the job for us. He's automatically distanced himself from Black, simply by cooperating with Grindelwald behind Pollux's back. Even if Pollux doesn't know about it—yet—it will hang over Malfoy's head and he will automatically feel uncomfortable getting too close to Black. Especially once he finds out that nothing went according to plan last night, and I'm still very much a thorn in his side. He doesn't know me well enough to anticipate whether or not I'll blab to Pollux about what happened. I have no intention of doing so—at least, not yet—but Malfoy doesn't know that. The suspense will make him sweat."
"This is assuming, of course, that Malfoy is indeed the person that Grindelwald's agent was speaking of so cryptically last night," Riddle said, cocking his head. "We're just guessing."
"I'm keeping an open mind," Hermione said. "I'm not ruling out others. But I've learned to trust my instincts. And my gut says it's him. Your friends were inclined to agree with me, as you'll recall."
"I'm inclined to agree with you, as well," Tom said, bowing his head in acquiescence. "I'm just playing devil's advocate." He paused. "You've really thought this through."
"Not in great detail," Draco said, rubbing his forehead. It was starting to ache more insistently. "We're still in the information gathering stage. We don't know precisely what needs doing, or how to do it. Keep in mind that we haven't been in England since childhood. We're still getting acquainted."
"You certainly work fast," the young Dark Lord said. "You haven't even been here two months."
"It doesn't take long to make an impression," Hermione said. "Or to grease hands for information. Money talks."
"Should I even bother asking how you got said money?" Tom asked. "Or how much there is?"
"Nope," she replied, popping her P. She left it at that.
"We all need rest," Draco interjected. "Dark Magic can take a toll." He raised an eyebrow at the teenage Lord Voldemort. "No offense, but you aren't really…yourself…this morning."
Tom's eyelid twitched. "I'm fine, thank you."
Draco stood, grabbed his cane. "No," he denied easily, "but you will be." He patted Hermione's hair fondly. "I'll see you later in classes. I need a nap." He glanced at Tom, and his nostrils flared before he looked back at his friend. "I don't think I need to tell you to stay here until you're forced to go to class? Wouldn't do to bump into Dumbledore in the hall while you still reek of Dark Magic." He wrinkled his nose. "You might want to take another shower, just for good measure."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mum."
He snorted. "Bookworm."
"Ferret."
Smirking, he walked to the portrait hole. Then, against his better judgment, he left the woman he loved alone with the man he feared most in the world.
oooo
"You are a study in contradictions."
Hermione calmly sipped her tea from across the room, staring at him with dark eyes. She was, as always, crawling under his skin to wreak havoc. Was it intentional, he wondered? He didn't know. He knew she liked to get under his skin, but did she know just how much she actually succeeded?
"I am considered to be fairly complex, yes," she said back. "This isn't news to you."
"Then why does it always surprise me?" he asked, feeling irritable. Irritable because his control was so precarious around her—mentally and physically.
"Because you know it, but you don't comprehend it," she replied easily. She put her empty teacup down on the coffee table. "What is it about me that is confusing you this time?"
He felt his irritation grow. Annoying, arrogant woman. She was the only person who had ever managed to make him feel small.
Was that why he wanted her? Because she offered him a new perspective? Because she challenged him?
"I cannot understand your connection to some of my friends," he said reluctantly. His mind was sluggish, his psyche trapped in sticky mud. Damn curse. Gods, he wanted so badly to learn it. "You…care…for some of them. Avery, Thoros, even Edmond." He looked searchingly at her. "Why?"
"They're each special, relatively pleasant beings that have all been kind to me," she said. "I generally make a habit of caring for those I consider friends."
"So simple," he murmured, almost to himself. He looked down at his feet, then back up. "You once said that we were friends."
She cocked her head. "If the question is 'Do you care for me?' then the answer is yes, in a fashion," she said, the hint of a smirk playing around her lips. "Let's not beat around the bush, here."
She leaned forward in the casual pose that any man might adopt, with her arms draped across her knees, her wrists crossed, her torso leaning forward; as a woman, it made her seem athletic, tough. She was both of those, he supposed.
"I care, in general, about people," she said earnestly. She squinted at him, as if trying to figure something out. "About animals, too. I try to protect them, comfort them, help them. It's just in my nature. And while you're about as emotive as a plank of wood, I still feel a measure of concern for you on a daily basis."
"Why?" he asked, frowning. He felt both flattered and deeply uncomfortable. "I can take care of myself."
"Most people can," she countered. "Do parents not still worry about their children, even when those children are functioning adults with their own families?" The smirk on her face grew mean. "Perhaps that isn't a great example." His nostrils flared, and he saw the triumph in her eyes. "It's hard to explain empathy to someone who doesn't have any. Like trying to describe the color blue to a blind person." She rubbed her lips together, and his eyes followed the movement of their own volition. "Last night, why did you come after me in the forest? Why save me?"
"You have use to me," he said automatically. "And you interest me."
"And therefore you were concerned about my well-being, and you set off to find me," she said with a nod. "For personal gain." She paused. He marveled that she did not seem the least bit offended; everything about this enigmatic girl was refreshing. "Imagine not having that sense of personal gain. Not doing it for selfish reasons."
He looked at her in confusion. "What would be the point?"
Hermione gave him a soft smile. He did not miss the condescension in it, or the pity. It made him bristle with resentment.
"That is exactly the point I'm trying to make," she said. "There is something you lack. And I can't describe the color blue to someone who can't see it. I can't make you see why I care, because you don't have the basic comprehension of empathy for others."
He glared at her. There it was again: something you lack. Can't see it. Not won't – but can't.
A disability.
"Love is a weakness," he said with certainty. "I've seen that. I know it."
"It can be," she said, frowning. "But it can also be a strength." She leaned back and crossed her legs. He saw the faintest hint of a garter beneath her skirt. Beneath his irritation, lust stirred. "What fuels the killing curse?" she inquired.
"Anger, and hate," he answered, impatient. "Or necessity."
"You can't have truly hated if you haven't loved," she said. "My hate of people—my anger—is in direct opposition to love."
"As in there can't be light without darkness?" Tom suggested, fascinated.
"That's the general idea, yes," Hermione continued. "I'm not saying you can't be angry, or despise someone, without love there to counter. But true hate—the kind that blackens your heart entirely—can't exist without something there to blacken. You thought I was especially good at the Cruciatus when I tortured Rosier because I had training—because I learned it from someone skilled in the art. Bellatrix was indeed good at the torture curse—she had the kind of hate that stems from prejudice that turns to madness. But I imagine," she continued softly, her eyes like flint, "that if she were to suffer under my wand, it would be infinitely more painful for her." She ran her small, scarred hands over her special wand. "Because she killed my husband. And a lot of other people I loved. And therefore my hate for her is unparalleled." She shrugged, and it did nothing to lighten the weight of her sinister statement. "As for Rosier, you know what he tried to do to me that night; he also happens to resemble someone from my past that tried to do the very same thing. Not a particularly beneficial likeness for him, I'm afraid. But anyway," she finished, sucking in a breath. "Because you can't love, Tom Riddle, your Cruciatus curse will never be as strong as mine." She paused. "'Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.'"
"Louis Aragon," Tom murmured, before he could stop himself.
"And you say Muggles have no merit," she said with a triumphant smirk.
He bristled. Tried hard not to. "I find…that certain, select Muggles—generally artists—have some merit." He shrugged. He did not like it when she started to disrupt his way of thinking. "After all, art is art."
"This is true," she said. "I'm often more fascinated by Muggle art than I am by wizarding art. Paintings and photographs in particular. Somehow, certain artists manage to capture emotion and movement better than wizarding art, which actually moves. There's far more talent in that. Also, they appreciate life more, I think," she continued musingly. "They have less time here on earth to accomplish things, to enjoy things. There's a sort of motivation there that I find wizards often lack." She stretched, raising her arms overhead with a yawn. "May I use your washroom again?" she asked.
The abrupt change of subject threw him off. "You may." He watched her carefully as she stood.
"Afterward, I think I'll go for a walk around the grounds before classes start," she said casually. "You're welcome to join me. It might be good to air ourselves out, so to speak. We'll just have to try to avoid other people."
He followed her as she started up the stairs. "In the meantime, I have more questions." He tried not to let his eyes linger too long on the back of her thighs, a strip of tantalizing flesh that flirted with the shadows created by her pleated skirt.
"I know you do," she said with a sigh. "Ask away. There may be a few that I refuse to answer, but you can certainly try."
He rolled his eyes as they stepped into his bedroom. "I still haven't quite figured out this inhuman component. Although I do enjoy a challenge, in this case, Hermione, I just want to know."
"I'm hesitant to talk about it," she replied. Her voice was gentle, tired—and, surprisingly, very sincere. "The truth is, Riddle," she continued, placing a hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes, "I don't trust you with the knowledge. I don't trust that you won't try to use me."
His curiosity was gnawing a hole in his stomach. "Let's be blunt. You are well aware that I'm already using you. Or at least trying to. You don't make it easy."
"There are leaders and followers in this world," she countered. She turned away from him, and pulled her grey jumper over her head in a way that he was sure was not intentionally meant to be seductive, yet still managed to make him want her even more. "Neither of them more important than the other. You and I, Tom—we're leaders." She kicked off her shoes. "We cannot be owned, cannot be controlled. Your friends, while all intelligent and capable, are followers. They are content to serve beneath you. But people like us, Tom—we will never serve another human being. You trying to use me and own me is as productive as me trying to use and own you. Read: not very."
She continued to speak as she began to unbutton her shirt. Feeling impatient, but respecting her right to speak, he reached out and pushed her hands away to do the menial task himself. She did not object, merely let her hands rest at her sides. He wrestled his lust for her in favor of paying close attention to what she was saying.
"The truth of my humanity would send your greed for me careening down the path at a reckless and dangerous pace," she said tiredly. "It's something special, something different—something that would turn me into a captive at the Ministry, studied and experimented on for years to come. That is, if you didn't get to me first." She shuddered as he pushed the uniform shirt from her shoulders; held it there for a moment, trapping her arms. She did not struggle against it. "Kept in a cell, as a trophy, as a tool."
"I wouldn't," he said mildly, sliding the white shirt fully down her arms with a caress of sun kissed skin. "I wouldn't keep you in a cell. I've come to terms with my lack of ownership of you. You would be respected as an equal…of sorts. I won't deny that I might look at you as a trophy or a tool, but you would be free." Absently, he leant down to brush his lips over her bare shoulder; felt her quiver in response. "Tell me," he murmured against her skin.
"I will," she answered as his hands went to the closure of her skirt. The fabric fell to the floor, pooling around her feet. "Just not today."
He groaned in frustration. "One of these days, Hermione, I'm going to strangle you."
She hummed. Her face became level with his groin as she unsnapped her garters and bent to roll her stockings down. "No, you won't," she said with a snort. "That's too common for you. You'd be cleverer about it. You would never use your bare hands to kill someone. It's too…Muggle."
Her head was less than two feet from his cock, which was rapidly hardening as more and more of her flesh went on display. By the slight smirk on her face, she was aware of it. Turning from him, she strode into the bathroom and turned on the taps to the bath. She got it to a temperature she liked, and then added lavender scented bubbles that poured from a faucet on the right.
His eyes almost rolled back into his head when she reached around to unclasp her bra, letting the straps slip down her arms. He struggled for self-control as she flicked her knickers from her hips, exposing her backside to him as if she hadn't a care in the world.
His cock reared up to its full potential when her torso twisted toward him, and she raised her hands to wrestle her unruly mane of hair into a pile atop her head, securing it with a clever bit of wandless magic. He swallowed, his eyes traveling from her shapely legs up to her muscled bottom and up further to the profile of the one pert breast he could see, its nipple pebbly in the cool air.
He longed to touch it. He longed to touch her: anywhere, everywhere, all the time. He would even settle for running a single finger over one of her dainty ankles.
Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and struggled to maintain an unaffected expression.
"You have incredible self-control," she drawled, meeting his eyes. She finally stepped up to the edge of the bath, and then submerged herself with a sigh. She waded over to the far side and turned to face him, revealing her breasts to him for a fraction of a second before sinking down until only the very top of her chest was exposed. She closed her eyes, and leaned back against the wall of the tub. "Then again, I would expect nothing less from you."
He gritted his teeth, and let his eyes rove over whatever skin showed above the bubbles. "Then you should know that I'm clinging very tenuously to that self-control." He glared at her. Stupid, bewitching woman. "And that it would take me very little time to divest myself of all clothing if you were to issue an invitation."
A very female smile curved on her face. "I'm flattered, Mister Riddle," she said, a laugh in her voice. She cracked an eye open to look at him. "But why would you need an invitation?" she asked slyly. "After all, it is your bath. I'm merely an invited guest." She shrugged. "You should do as you please."
He stiffened at the words. She hadn't said "You can do as you please"—she'd used the word "should."
"Should I?" he asked quietly, stepping out of his shoes and moving further into the room. His eyes never left the beguiling woman in his tub.
She hummed in acquiescence. Watching him with lazy, predatory eyes, she let her eyes peruse his form, watched large and capable hands come up to flip open his shirt buttons and peel it back from his torso. He was glad they didn't shake; not from nervousness—he had nothing to be nervous about, on his end—but from how much he fucking wanted her.
He stripped out of his trousers and vanished his socks with a flick of his fingers. Finally, without shame, he pushed his pants down from his hips, and enjoyed the way her lips parted and how her eyes went dark with hunger.
She pushed away from the far wall and came to fold her arms on the rim of the tub. The position put her at eye-level with his straining cock. Stepping forward, desire making his vision hazy, he slid his fingers back into the hair behind her temple. Tempted, she leaned forward and licked his hipbone.
He sighed in exasperation, fit to explode. "Don't tease," he said sharply. "You've been teasing me now for a month and a half. It's driving me spare."
She grinned mischievously up at him, her eyes full of womanly secrets. "It was never my intention to frustrate you, Tom," she said coyly. He hissed when she reached up with her wet hand and danced her fingers down his cock before circling them around the base.
"Liar," he shot out, his fingers tightening in her hair.
She gave him a mean smile, and then inclined her head and ran the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—
Someone knocked on the portrait door.
oooo
Ooh! Poor timing. Who's at the door, do you think?
Snippet from the next chapter:
"Who are you?" he snarled into her face. Fear gripped her heart in its icy fist as she saw the faintest trace of red slide into those deep blue eyes. For they were blue, she confirmed. Now that she was so close, and as the sunlight bled through the foliage, she could see clearly. The darkest, greyest blue that nature had been able to conjure.
I'm sorry I haven't been consistent lately. This new job takes up a lot of time and energy, and I just haven't had the inspiration to write like I used to. Hopefully it will come back, and I'll be more regular with updates. Hopefully.
Either way, whether it takes me a week or a year, I won't cease to keep writing for this story. Like I've said before, nothing is ever abandoned.
Thanks for your continued support. Reviews really do help! As always, I love you guys.
xoxo
Giraffe :)