"I do a death dance,
I lay a snake skin…"
— Anne Sexton
It is the end of August.
Hermione leans back in the dining chair with her glass of wine, taking a long and slow drink. She wishes she had a cigarette, but knows Magnus would be disapproving of what Tom had called a foul muggle habit. He had invited her to join him for a meal at the manor. She half-expected to be ambushed and interrogated, perhaps put through the same hasty trial that allowed the Ministry to execute Alphie. Even through the quaint and eventless supper, she still cannot allow her guard to lower.
This is not a place where weakness can thrive, she reminds herself. She must remain vigilant, anything could happen.
"I want you to come home."
She turns her head to look at him, sharper than intended.
"I don't understand," she answers honestly. Still narrowed eyes scrutinize him as if waiting for the rug to be pulled out under her. This is not a home. It's a cage.
And Magnus expects her to willingly return?
She studies him again, eyes still narrowed. Perhaps not willingly.
"Marion, for the gods' sake, stop glaring at me." He groaned, pushing back his cropped black hair. The last time they truly spoke was when she had first arrived at the manor through her portkey. Hermione still wonders why the portkey's destination had been the manor, and not Marion's flat.
She considers his offer, taking another sip. Perhaps she should shift her focus. Like Fenrir had told her, she should rely on the devil she knows.
"Why so suddenly?" She asks finally, various scenarios playing out in her mind. Hermione can see the chess board developing, she just isn't sure yet who is her true opponent. (Tom? Time itself?)
"It's not sudden. I told you when you first returned."
"In not such explicit terms," she reminds him tartly.
"This is your home."
No, it's not. Hermione can feel that in her bones, had felt it the moment she crossed the threshold. But still, something in her guides her to say yes.
"Is this because of Alphie?"
He balks, his expression not quite as controlled as his Little Lord's.
"Whatever you are implying, don't." His eyes narrow, and Hermione can glimpse the darkest part of him. The part of him that schemes world domination, death to the impure, A man who had goaded a young Tom to open the Chamber and kill Myrtle.
She bites down, her jaw tensed as she stares back at him. She almost reaches for her wand. He seems to notice that little itch of her finger, and his expression softens into a saccharine smile.
"Marion," The name feels uncomfortable, almost threatening in his voice. It lacks the music of Fenrir's furtive whispers. "If you come back to the manor I can protect you. If you're off on your own, away from your family, there's no guarantee of your safety."
Her teeth grind. It's not almost threatening. It is a threat.
Hermione stands suddenly, chair scraping against the wood flooring. The wine glass in her hand reminds her of Hufflepuff's cup and she pauses. Her fingers squeeze against the glass, stopping at the moment she feels the cracks begin to form.
"Fine." She gives him a mollified glance. "But I'll need to redecorate."
"Of course, dear sister." He drawls with a pleased upturn of his mouth. (One day, she promises herself, she will wipe that smug grin from his face.) "Anything you'd like."
Hermione stands in Marion's childhood bedroom, still boiling with rage at Magnus' threat. If there had been any doubt that the Knights of Walpurgis were responsible for Alphie's trial, it is gone. She doesn't know quite how, but she's determined to gain justice in any way she can.
She waves her wand, slicing through the sickeningly pink duvet, chantilly lace flying into the air. She continues her movements until the room is a mess of flying feathers, lace scraps, and charmeuse ribbons.
A bombarda to the cabinet where she suspects Marion had been imprisoned as a child sends chips of wood across the room.
Her body thrums at the destruction, eyes stinging with rage. A visceral pleasure courses through blood and bone and sinew.
Magnus, alerted by the round of explosions, stands at the threshold of the door. She turns to him, daring him to say a word. Instead he blinks slowly, restraining himself, before pivoting back out into the hall.
For Marion , she thinks, heart racing. A smile curls at her lips.
Hermione sits in the small den aside from the parlour where Cygnus had pulled her aside. In the past week she has allowed herself to spread through the manor like an infection. She leaves her touch everywhere she goes, like stubborn little blooms growing through concrete. Like a tiny stream carving canyons into the mountain.
She eventually redecorates Marion's room in earnest, though she pays more attention to the concealment charms and safety wards than the velvet drapes and damask bedding. She decides to keep the flat in London, and disappears to it occasionally. She remains determined to preserve the link between herself and Fenrir, even as he is countries away.
As she left the flat with the last of her belongings her fingers brushed against the settee. Even now she can still feel his touch on her skin, his lips branding her flesh, the path of his fingertips carved into the bone. But somehow, she cannot see his face, even as she closes her eyes at night, fingers dipped into the apex of her thighs. She cannot see his dark eyes or tattooed and marred skin. She only sees silver, blue, a snake slithering from the eye of a skull.
Within the books she finds traces of Marion, familiar handwriting within the margins. Pieces of parchment with abandoned streams of thought. It feels strange to see her impressions on the world not within the confines of the diary—annotations on philosophy, history, astrology.
Her nose is buried in an old textbook when he enters. She feels him before she sees him. His presence fills the small den. It starts subtly, then grows to the point she can no longer ignore it—the way a drop of perfume can fill an entire room.
"Mr. Riddle," she greets without looking up from her book. A figure moves in the pane of the window, which she recognizes as his reflection. He's standing directly behind her.
"Miss Lestrange." He greets just as simply, allowing her name to hang in the air. His tone is almost cheery, and the contrast to all that she knows about Tom Riddle causes her to turn. He doesn't smile, but his features are relaxed. "I hope I didn't interrupt your reading."
"You did." A saccharine smile as she closes the well-read tome. The cheery mask falters for just a moment, so brief he could explain it away as a flicker of the light. She turns to fully face him, crossing her legs as she adjusts her position in the window nook. "But my mind had already started to drift so I don't mind. What brings you here?"
She wonders absently if he knew that she had been on the same page for the past ten minutes. Had he been standing there long enough to be curious?
She had not felt him hover at her mind the way she had before. Was he no longer curious, or had he moved on to different motives? Had he crafted his own plan to infiltrate her inner world, just as she began to implement hers?
Either way, he is exceptionally pleasant today, which means that Hermione cannot trust a word he says (more than usual).
"The chalice you brought me is indeed Helga Hufflepuff's Cup," Tom reports happily and she nods.
"I'm glad." A smile as she attempts to push back the guilt of personally handing him the horcrux that she and her friends would risk their lives to destroy fifty years later.
"If I may be so forward, I have a proposition for you." He speaks smoothly, undeterred by the subtle dropping of her jaw. He chose those words on purpose, she can see it in the way he blinks innocently.
"You may." She murmurs, uncrossing and recrossing her legs as she composes herself again. He doesn't need to resort to Legilimens, she is proving herself an open book for him to read at his pleasure. Damn it.
Instead of propositioning her Tom takes a seat beside her, looking out at the window. Their eyes meet within the reflection, and the flicker of serpentine irises causes her to shiver. His brow raised lightly, seemingly pleased at her reaction.
"Do you enjoy adventure, Miss Lestrange?"
As much as she loathes giving him the satisfaction, she turns her head toward him in surprise.
"I suppose, as much as the next girl." Her tone is neutral, but her mind whirrs with the possible directions of this conversation. Where is he going with this? Has he managed to enter her thoughts without her noticing? Did he find out she's a fraud, or perhaps learn of Marion's own adventures?
He hums thoughtfully before continuing. More data points compiled, and she provided them so easily. Again.
Damn it.
"Would you like to go back to Albania?" He asks, causing her to sit upright. More than anything, she can't help but think. Before she can respond he continues. "With me."
"Why?"
The question is a little more insolent than intended, but Tom doesn't seem to mind. He must know how uncomfortable he makes her by now. Isn't that why he seems to always appear?
"I thought more about our conversation at Borgin and Burke's, and decided that you should know something." He is obnoxiously vague and Hermione purses her lips. Her heart beats a little bit faster, realizing where this may be going. "Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem is in Albania, and I want you to help me locate it. You have a familiarity with the region, and you are a Ravenclaw yourself, of course."
She stares at him in shock, mostly because she can't believe how easily the pieces of her plan are falling into place.
"If you're interested, we can leave immediately."
We.
Tom is not propositioning her, he is recruiting her.
Hermione grips onto her leather handbag, enchanted to carry much more than it should. She wears a simple hat, her curls protected against the slight breeze of the railway station. And while she much rather would have worn trousers, she wears a simple collared dress and loafers instead.
She glances at her unlikely travel companion as the train begins to board. Tom wears a black triple breasted suit, standing casually with one hand on his briefcase. He turns to look at her from beneath his fedora, and she can't help but think he looks like a cartoon villain.
"I am not fond of portkeys," Tom had told Hermione at the manor while he handed her two train tickets.
Just as promised, they did indeed leave immediately. Tom gave her about an hour to gather her belongings. She noticed in annoyance that Tom's luggage sat expectantly in the foyer. Magnus had only been told she would be visiting an aunt and Tom would accompany her for a portion of the journey as he handles business of his own. The Little Lord's loyal knight asked no more questions, only giving her a stern look ( "behave," his eyes warned her).
Hermione follows him onto the train. She has a feeling his preference for muggle travel has more to do with not wanting to be magically traced while he fulfills his dark designs than anything else.
The compartment is more spacious than she had imagined, reminiscent of her time spent on the Hogwarts Express. She's thankful for it, as she couldn't imagine being confined with Tom Riddle in a tinier space. She sets her bag beside her and pulls out a book. Tom raises a brow in her direction before doing the same.
The trip from London to Paris is surprisingly pleasant. Hermione had enchanted a few books so that Tom would not see their true content—advanced occlumency and dark defensive spells (borrowed from Marion's desk). Occasionally she meets his gaze as they both look out the window, or as the refreshment cart rolls around. Tom is engrossed in his own reading, which from the cover appears to be written completely in Latin.
Before she knows it they have arrived in Paris. She doesn't have time to take in the beautiful architecture of the Gare du Nord as a severe looking woman meets them at the rail terminal. She couldn't look any less like a witch in her wide brimmed hat and long black dress. Severine Lestrange is a distant aunt that not even Marion is expected to know, and also their chaperone while in Paris. She apparates them to the wizarding high street Rue la Droiturière where they share a small supper at a cafe.
After perhaps the strangest meal of her life, Tante Severine apparates them to the Lestrange family's Paris apartment. Their chaperone finally leaves them in the care of an old and wrinkled house elf, to which Tom appears less amused than she.
It's not proper for a man and woman to travel alone, Magnus had mentioned briefly as he arranged their lodgings. Tom had quietly gone along, but she can see the limits of patience begin to show.
Hermione goes to her room, changing from her travelling clothes and removing the pins from her hair. She dresses in a modest nightgown and wraps a robe closely around her body. She can hear music faintly from Severine's room, followed by a series of harsh coughs. With a frown she leaves to explore the apartment, knowing that there must be a library.
She realizes the music is not coming from Severine's room but from the library. Tom sits in an armchair, his jacket abandoned and the sleeves of his shirt pushed up his forearm. His tie, too, is loosened. She swallows at the sight, which feels almost forbidden in its rarity. He glances up at her, and she knows he would not have gone to the trouble to relax if he knew another person would bear witness to it.
And yet, he doesn't move to leave.
Hermione hovers around the vast shelves, holding her robe tight to her body. She also would not have changed if she knew that she would run into him. (He was supposed to be asleep in his coffin by now.)
They continue to linger in each other's presence, and, just as on the train, Tom's presence is unobtrusive.
Rounding a corner Hermione lets out a pleasantly surprised gasp. Tom raises his head at the sudden noise, following her with his heavy lidded gaze.
Her fingers reach out in wonder, brushing lightly against the plaster caste hanging on the wall.
"It's L'Inconnue de la Seine," she announces quietly, fixated on the girl's features. "Do you know the story?"
She doesn't know why she asks, why she bothers to engage him in conversation. She can only look at the serene face of the girl, a sight that leaves her breathless and a little lightheaded. Is it enchanted or is this simply the mysterious girl's effect?
"No." Tom's voice cuts through the silence and Hermione swallows, realizing that he now stands behind her. "Tell me."
She sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his eyes on the back of her head. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before speaking.
"Sometime in the late nineteenth century a girl's body was pulled from the Seine River, a suspected suicide. According to the story, the pathologist at the morgue found her so beautiful that he created this death mask of her. So many people found her beautiful that they recreated the plaster caste and displayed it in their homes, like this." She turns her head slightly, trying to read his own expression. He stares intently, but not at the mask. She continues nervously: "Albert Camus called her the drowned Mona Lisa and they even based the…"
She bites her tongue. The CPR doll will not be created until the late fifties. His expression is blank, and Hermione realizes that he has her cornered. And yet, he makes no move. His body, his eyes, his lips still.
"I see." Tom responds tightly. The tips of her fingers begin to tingle under the intensity of his gaze. A slight raise of his eyebrow prompts her to continue.
"Um, but it's probably just a legend. Something similar happened in New York, where a muggle girl jumped from a building and the photograph of her body became famous. She was called the most beautiful suicide , which is quite morbid." She bites her cheek, remembering that Evelyn McHale will not die for another two years. She turns her body more fully, leaning against the shelf as she faces him directly. Her fingers tap lightly on the wood, and she swallows as Tom's eyes follow the movement. "Of course, suicide isn't beautiful. These girls didn't ask to be but are now immortalized, forced to live on forever."
"Do you want to live forever?" Tom's voice is smooth, tinged with genuine curiosity.
Hermione shakes her head, feeling a tug in her heart for Marion. Through her war efforts, Hermione Granger has already taken her place in history. She is immortalized at the very least by a chocolate frog card and a small Ministry plaque, though she may one day only be an accredited footnote as a friend to Harry Potter. She doesn't mind being overshadowed by the Chosen One. She knows what she contributed, what she sacrificed.
(Perhaps they are mourning her already—how long has she been gone now? A month or two, just as within this time? Or maybe years? The passage of time and space is an unpredictable vacuum, it could be any stretch of time. Maybe even minutes. Maybe they don't even know she's gone.)
Instead her heart continues to ache for Marion, knowing the brutal truth.
"I will be forgotten when I die." She raises her chin, a measure of somber confidence in her narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. "Perhaps there will be a few who think of me, but I will not have lived a remarkable life, or be a portrait hanging on the wall. I will… disappear."
She glances at Tom, but he is silent. He remains unmoving, a delphic but captivating stillness in his features—just like the girl on the wall.