"It feels good, doesn't it? Knowing that I will do horrible, unspeakable things for you?"

Hermione didn't bother looking up. Her shoulders hurt from curling them around old spell books and the oil lamps flickered too much. It gave her eye strain.

"Did you hear me?"

So. He was in a mood again. She marked the spot where she'd stopped reading, tucked a bit of loose parchment into the book, and pushed her chair back, stood up. Shadows danced on the walls and darkness lurked in the corners. She missed electric light. She missed her own time, her own friends, her own world. At least this place, this place that wasn't, hadn't ever been, shouldn't be, had hot running water. If it hadn't she might have curled into a ball and refused to go on.

"Hermione."

Tom had narrowed his eyes. It was a look that made strong men tremble. She'd seen dark wizards fall to their knees and beg forgiveness at even a hint of the glare he was directing at her. She set a hand along his cheek. "You would do them anyway," she said. "The cat kills the mouse regardless of who owns him."

"You don't -."

She turned and walked out of the room. Her shoulders hurt. She'd been researching all day. Books were supposed to have answers but in this world all they did was spin out question after question after question. Worse, she wanted to follow them, see where they led. Could you do this thing? Was that thing even possible.

She wanted to stay.

Courting damnation for knowledge. Maybe she should have been Sorted to Ravenclaw all those years ago. She could go to this Hogwarts. Demand they put the Hat on her head. They wouldn't dare refuse her. Was the answer still the same? Was she still the brave Gryffindor?

"Are you coming?" she asked Tom impatiently when he hovered in her study, blood still on his hands from whatever atrocity he'd doled out that day.

He followed her.

He had since she'd arrived.

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N – Thank you to breenieweenie for the prompt.