Flight of the Stars
Rated T
By DarkLadySwan
Disclaimer: I picked an obscure ship because I'm not afraid of a challenge, but that doesn't mean I own it! Just the computer, absolutely nothing else, because I'm broke. (What, like it's hard?)
Note: Thank you so much to willaguirre, Aileen Dickenson, sheepnz, Euraika, reelirishdancer, Randomgirl224, KiraCalico, aberedeen, taylorcatherine, and Scorpiochick96 for following, willaguirre, Ilydiaa, Randomgirl224, MrsFell, aberedeen, taylorcatherine, fandombornandraised, and Scorpiochick96 for favoriting, and beccasullivanwrites1, willaguirre, Anne LM, and Guest (Guest) (Oh wow, thank you so much, I'm so glad you're enjoying it! Seriously, reading that brightened up my day.) for reviewing!
"Can you hear the drumming?
There's a revolution coming."
~ Revolution by The Score
Chapter 27
They'd done it. Against all odds, they had accomplished what everyone had said they wouldn't.
Hermione couldn't hide the thrill in her eyes, the skip in her heart, as she gazed at all of the kneeling Knights. Normally, this amount of power would scare her, but her hand found Tom's, and the gentle pressure he exerted on their interlaced fingers gave her courage.
Her eyes scanned the room, took in the flickering torches, the stone walls that exuded a chill, the highly arched ceiling, and she frowned. "Where are we?"
Her question seemed to break the spell holding everyone transfixed, and Abraxas rose to his feet, his easy smile already in place, although his eyes were tight with tension. "Our new headquarters, my Lady. Malfoy Manor. We've been compromised, I'm afraid."
Malfoy Manor. The words hit her like a Bludger, and she remembered, remembered everything, Bellatrix, the knife, the blood, the screams, and she suddenly realized she was shaking. Tom put an arm around her waist, his voice low enough that no one else could hear, "We're not in the drawing-room. I believe we're in the library."
The library. Not the drawing-room. Focus on the details. No chandelier. Arched ceilings, but they weren't intricate. And, now that she took in the room in its entirety, she saw bookshelves completely lining the walls, windows looking out into an expansive garden. Her vision cleared, and she released a shaky breath.
Abraxas frowned at her. "Are you alright, my Lady?"
"Yes," Hermione said impatiently, in an attempt to hide how much she'd been trembling, although she couldn't hide the quaver in her voice. "But what do you mean, we've been compromised?"
He pursed his lips, his gaze furtive. "If you don't mind, my Lady, I'll tell you later."
She paused, then nodded, her mind working. "That's fine. And enough with the formality; we're friends here."
He grinned, and Hermione's eyes found a set of unfamiliar dark ones.
"Who is this?"
The woman stood up, poised like a cat. She was certainly as trustful as one. Her hazel eyes were narrowed to slits. "My name is Anya Bulstrode." Her voice held a faint Russian accent.
Hermione nodded. "Are you here to be inducted?"
Anya Bulstrode paled, strangely enough. "Not at the moment."
"Take your time, Anya," Hermione said. "I'd much rather you join our ranks by your own free will than for you to be forced."
The use of her first name seemed to startle Anya, who just scowled. Then she glanced beyond Hermione, and she went whiter than before, if that was possible. Her lips drew back in a snarl and she flicked out her wand, leveling it at something behind Hermione. "Why is he here?"
"Oh! I'd almost forgotten." Hermione turned and put her arm on Grindelwald's. "Everyone, meet our newest ally, Gellert Grindelwald."
The room descended into chaos. Rufus was holding Anya back, keeping her from using her wand. Many Knights were shouting, and Lucretia swayed, looking like she was about to faint. Cecily was staring at Hermione as if she'd never seen her before.
Grindelwald's lips quirked up. "I think I'm flattered."
"Silence," Tom said. The words were quiet, but they commanded attention, and the Knights fell quiet, staring at him, though most were unhappy. Lucretia crumpled to the floor, and Cecily ran over to tend to her, her cheeks as white as a sheet.
Considering, it was a much better response than Hermione had expected.
"You have nothing to fear from him," Tom continued. This wasn't true at all, of course, but it was important to reassure the Knights. "He is no longer a threat."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Grindelwald said.
"You're not helping things," Hermione hissed.
"Who said I was trying to?"
Tom directed a glare at him, and he fell silent, shockingly enough, although he still had that annoying half-smile on his face. Salazar, the man was plotting something. She'd seen the same look far too many times on Tom.
"And if he does try anything," Tom added pointedly, "I will deal with him myself."
Grindelwald scoffed, but that seemed to ease the tension in the room. Avery grinned. "Well," he said, holding out his hand, clearly trying to hide his unease, "welcome to the team, Mr. Grindelwald, sir."
Grindelwald didn't shake it, his contempt the only thing marring his bored expression.
Abraxas caught Hermione's eye and walked over to her, a grin already falling into place. "Salazar, Hermione, it's been lonely here without you. I have so much to tell you, and I don't even know where to begin."
"So formal," Hermione murmured. She missed the days where he would ruffle her hair, not a care in the world between them. Those days were gone, it seemed. She felt a sudden pang in her heart.
Abraxas shrugged. "I mean, when you appear all of a sudden in a great flash of white light and your power's glowing around you like a crown, things aren't really gonna be the same."
"Did it really?" She knew they'd made an entrance, but she hadn't realized it had been to that extent.
His face said it all. "Believe me, I was glad to be kneeling." Abraxas hesitated, then winked and tugged on a strand of her hair. "Welcome home, 'Mione."
Hermione's eyes filled with tears, to her mortification, and she hugged him tightly. He stiffened, uncertain, and then wrapped his arms around her. "Was it hard?" he asked softly.
"You have no idea," she said, giving a little laugh. "I think I've completely ditched any morality I had left."
"Are you as bad as Tom?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Then you're just fine," he laughed.
"That's quite a low bar," she muttered. "Although I did use an Unforgivable for the first time."
Abraxas put his hands on her shoulders so he could look at her properly, his surprise clear on his face. "Well, look at you! The little Muggleborn's all grown up."
"Shh!" Hermione glanced around to see if anyone had heard, but everyone was absorbed in their own conversations.
"Sorry," he said, giving her a sheepish smile. "I forget other people don't know sometimes."
"Who all do?"
"Just me, Oraia, and Cecily. I don't think even Lucy knows."
"Keep it that way. I don't know how many would follow me if they knew I'm a-" She lowered her voice. "If they knew I'm Muggleborn."
"Your secret's safe with me," he said fervently, squeezing her hands. "I swear it."
She nodded, and he grinned before leaving to talk to Cecily. They looked quite close now, and Hermione thought she could make out a diamond on Cecily's finger. Had he proposed? Merlin! They'd only been gone for the summer! Cecily smiled at him, then slipped off somewhere. Her sudden disappearance reminded Hermione of another whose absence was conspicuous.
Tom approached her, and she slipped an arm through his. "Have you seen Oraia?" Hermione asked.
His dark eyes took in the room, and he shook his head. "She's not here."
Hermione frowned. "That's odd. She's always been one of the most excited about what we're doing. I thought she'd be here."
"It was required for them to be here," Tom said. He nodded over to where Macnair was standing with Dolohov, his posture sullen. "Even Macnair showed up, and he despises you."
"Thanks for the reminder," Hermione said. She thought back to when she'd bested Macnair in a duel and had broken his back during her initiation, and she smirked. "The nurse fixed him right up, didn't she?"
"Mostly," Tom replied. He smiled. "I took care of the rest."
"Oh, you definitely did. He hasn't said a single rude thing to me this entire time. I think it's a new record for him. Salazar, where is Oraia?"
Abraxas turned at the mention of her name. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes nervous. "That was actually one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, ah, my Lady." His eyes sought Tom's. "Can I show you?"
Tom nodded, and they followed Abraxas out of the library.
When she and Tom entered the bedroom, Cecily hurried over, worry written all over her face, as well as something new, something unfamiliar. Distrust? Surely not. Cily was one of her closest friends. She was probably just being paranoid. That's what power does to you, Hermione thought miserably. It corrupts your faith in people until there's no one left but yourself.
"She's really fragile right now," Cecily said nervously.
"We cleaned off the blood," Lucretia said. "But she's really hurt, and we aren't healers."
"And you didn't want to take her to St. Mungo's for fear of them discovering our plot," Hermione nodded, already hurrying over to Oraia's side. Oraia was pale and gaunt, the bruises a mottled purple and the cuts beginning to swell. Hermione kept a calm face on the outside, but inside she felt like she was falling apart.
"We tried to heal her," Cecily said. "Winston even mixed up a healing potion, which helped a lot, but it didn't fix the worst of it. She was injured only today."
Hermione's thoughts were a jumbled mix of fear and pure fury. "Who did this to her?"
"Who do you think?" Tom said quietly.
Of course it was them. It was always them.
At that moment, Oraia's eyes fluttered open. She was halfway through a yawn when she saw Hermione. Her mouth dropped, and she struggled to sit up, wincing as she fell back down. A determined light entered her eyes, and she finally pushed herself up, resting against a raised pillow. "Hermione!" she laughed, taking Hermione's hands in hers. "I was beginning to think we'd never see you again. Oh, I have so much to tell you!"
"And I you," Hermione said, her eyes scanning every place where they had hurt her. "But first . . ." She glanced around the room for Tom, and finally caught his eye. He was leaving the room with Abraxas, but he gave her a short nod before closing the door behind him.
She reached into her bag and drew out the Elder Wand.
The girls gasped as one, and Lucretia reached out a hesitant hand to touch the wood. "Is it . . . is this really-?"
"The one and only," Hermione confirmed. "If this can't heal you, Oraia, I suppose you're beyond hope."
"That's comforting," Oraia muttered.
The Elder Wand hummed in her hand, the raw potential a song for her ears alone. She could raze the entire manor with the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, burn it to the ground, but she gently placed the tip on Oraia's palm, where a large scab was already attempting to form. Oraia was a fighter, and her body reflected that in more ways than one.
"Vulnera sanentur," Hermione murmured.
A faint light emerged from the tip of the wand, like a blossoming flower, and it spread over Oraia's outstretched hand and across her body, engulfing her in a soft light. Oraia closed her eyes, and her mouth parted, like she was drinking in the strength the light gave her, and when the light faded, she was whole, her injuries patching themselves up before their eyes.
"Oraia!" Cecily cried. She launched herself onto the girl, holding her close. Oraia returned the hug readily, then smiled.
"Cecily, darling, I can't breathe."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Cecily let go and gave her a sheepish smile. "How do you feel?"
"Absolutely amazing," Oraia laughed. "Like I could go to one of those Muggle swing dances."
Lucretia went in for a hug as well. Hermione's eyes met Cecily's, and again she saw that flicker of distrust, the wariness and suspicion that panged her heart.
So she hadn't been mistaken after all.
What had Cecily discovered? Had her Knights been talking behind her back? Had she learned her secret?
Hermione bit her lip so hard that she drew blood. She tilted her head to the door, and Cecily followed her out.
Once their conversation was private, she drew Cecily to the side. "What's wrong?" she asked. Why don't you trust me like they do?
Cecily swallowed. "That's a rather complicated answer," she said carefully. She drew a deep breath, and some of her composure returned. "How did you obtain the Elder Wand?"
"That's a rather complicated answer," Hermione mirrored. "We can go back and forth like this all day. Tell me the truth."
Cecily swallowed. "I know your secret."
"Which one?" she asked, although her heart raced. "I have quite a few, actually."
Cecily's eyes met hers. "You're from the future."
Hermione's heart dropped to her stomach. "Ah," she said. "That one."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Cecily demanded. "We used to be so close. Why did I have to find out myself?"
"That secret wasn't yours to find, Cecily," Hermione said, her eyes flashing. "If I had wanted to tell you, I would have. But I didn't."
"And why not?" Cecily stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. "We're friends! We're supposed to trust each other. I'm entitled to your trust just like you're entitled to mine."
"You're not entitled to anything," Hermione said angrily. "I'll tell you what I wish to tell you. If I don't wish to tell you, that secret will stay with me. You had no right to snoop around my room, digging up things you could use against me later. There are boundaries that you just don't cross, and you've crossed many."
Cecily winced as though struck. "You may think you're above me, my Lady, but I know better. You're just a silly girl like me. The only reason you're in this elevated position is because Tom put you there." Cecily stepped forward, her eyes full of hurt and anger. "Don't you get it? You're not better than me. Stop acting so high and mighty, and get on a level with the rest of us."
The words pierced Hermione's heart. Mudblood. It was the same, really. You're below me. Don't reach higher than society has placed you.
The horrible thing was, Cecily was right. She was just Hermione Granger. A bookworm, a Mudblood. She was also a war heroine, true, but only because she had been best friends with Harry Potter, the Chosen One. If he and Ron hadn't fought off that mountain troll in the girls' lavatory, she would probably be among the Hogwarts fallen, just one more student lost in the Battle of Hogwarts, her life sacrificed for the greater good of the wizarding world, already forgotten by all but her parents.
She was a bookworm. At the end of the day, that was all she was. If not for Tom, she might have found the reversal spell for Reducite, already back in her own time, politically powerless, her magic only useful for tracking down inexperienced Death Eaters, struggling to get a promotion while the purebloods around her sailed to the top. But for some reason, he had taken a special interest in her. And at the end of the day, she was Tom's pet, his plaything, an amusement for him while he used her to gain power and glory for himself. At the end of the day, he could take everything from her, just as easily as he had granted it. He controlled her, like he controlled everyone else in this Merlin-forsaken manor. Tom had her wrapped around his finger.
No.
No, that was all wrong. Tom had given her the means, but Hermione was the one who had attained the magic, had she not? He had not simply given her power. He had claimed her as his pet, true, but he had also taught her, pushed her, coaxed her, and she had blossomed under his instruction. Tom had not handed her this position. She had earned it, earned it with every fiber of her being, struggled and strived to become on a level with him. Hermione had already had the potential. She had just needed someone to nudge her in the right direction.
She was immortal. She was the Lady Persephone.
Cecily was merely a Knight.
Hermione lifted her eyes to meet Cecily's, who flinched at the steadiness, the hardness, the control. She took a step forward, and Cecily stepped back, seeming like she wasn't even aware she was doing it. Hermione tilted her head, the tingle of magic dancing at her fingertips.
She smiled. "Oh, Cecily. You have it all wrong."
"All what wrong?" Cecily snapped.
"Everything." Hermione smiled. "You see, Cily, I'm Lady Persephone. Can I tell you something?"
"I don't think I can stop you," Cecily muttered.
"No, you can't," Hermione laughed. She took another step forward. "I'm the one Tom trusted most to help him obtain immortality. He's helped me develop my abilities to be the greatest that they can be. Under his teaching, I've grown in ways that I wouldn't have even dared to grow in a year ago, especially in the area of Dark magic. We found the Deathly Hallows together. But do you know what stuck out to me the most during my journey?"
"What?" Cecily whispered.
Hermione smiled. "I'm not sure when I first noticed it, but over the course of our time together, Tom started seeing me less as an affair, and more as an equal. An equal, Cecily."
With every step Hermione took, Cecily took two steps back. She finally backed into a wall, nowhere else to go. Hermione's eyes bored into hers, her voice ice. "If it's enough for Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord, the Heir of Slytherin himself, I think it should be enough for you."
Cecily held her gaze, then dropped her eyes and nodded. "Of course, my Lady. I'm sorry." Her eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth as she seemed to realize what she'd said. "Oh, Hermione, I'm so - oh Salazar, I didn't mean any of it! I don't know - I have no idea what came over me, I think I was just -"
"You were just what?" Hermione asked coldly.
Cecily's head shot up, and Hermione was startled to see that her eyes were full of tears, and envy. "I - I was jealous," she burst out. "It's not my place to feel that way, and I know I'm valuable to the cause in my own manner, but you're intelligent, and passionate, and so powerful, 'Mione, and - and - I can't believe I just said that. How could I be so horrible?"
"It was quite petty," Hermione said. A teardrop fell down Cecily's cheek, and she sighed. "Oh, Cily. Come here."
Cecily came forward warily, and Hermione wrapped her in a hug, the second one she'd given that day. Cecily shuddered, and then her arms were around Hermione, holding her as though if she let go, she'd disappear. "How about," Hermione said, "we visit Oraia, and invite Lucy, and you can tell me everything that's happened. I especially want to hear about where you got that ring." Cecily smiled sadly, and Hermione's eyes scanned the hallway, her mind working rapidly.
She hadn't forgiven Cecily. What the girl had said, well, there was no excuse for that. But that wasn't the real problem here.
How many of her other Knights felt exactly the same way?
Tom wasn't sure what change had come over Hermione after she had gone in to see Oraia, but she was carrying herself differently, and it pleased him.
Her lack of confidence had always grated on him. She was so powerful, so capable, and yet she refused to see it, continually lowering herself in her own eyes. He detested the way other people had treated her, that she felt that a lowly Mudblood was all she would ever be. She was so much more.
After all, she was the one who had helped him obtain immortality.
Tom watched her lift the chin of one of their Knights, his posture submissive, almost slavish. Osmond Mulciber's family had a powerful pureblooded legacy, and yet here he was, kneeling before Tom's little Bringer of Death.
"Which task did you accomplish?" she asked him.
Mulciber's eyes lifted, and even in the dark room, lit only by two flickering torches, they were filled with pride. "The riots were successful, my Lady. Everything's in chaos." He grinned. "It's quite satisfying to read the papers now."
Riots. Then things were going even better than expected. He wondered how the Minister was faring through all of it. Or if he was drowning himself in firewhiskey. An unfamiliar smile stole across Tom's face, and Hermione cast a startled glance at him. Leonard Spencer-Moon would have to deal with much worse than riots before they were through with him.
Tom turned to Mulciber. "Good work." Mulciber's mouth fell open, delight shining in his features, and Tom nodded. "You're free to go. But first. . ." His eyes met Hermione's. "You have one more question."
She tilted her head, a habit she had indulged in lately. He didn't mind. It was an easy way to let people know that Lady Persephone was angry. Hermione's eyes formed the question she didn't seem to want to voice, and he nodded.
She lifted Mulciber's chin a little higher. "What would you think if I told you I was Muggleborn?"
Mulciber's mouth twisted in disgust. "You, a Mudblood? Impossible."
The bond spiked with pain. "Nothing is impossible. Just highly improbable." She looked down at him, and hurt bled through the bond. She finally let go of his chin, touching fingers to his forehead. "Obliviate."
The revulsion in his eyes faded, replaced with the same slavish servitude he had displayed earlier. "You may leave."
Mulciber rose to his feet, nodded first to Tom, then Hermione, and smiled. "My Lord. My Lady." He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
"I'm not ashamed to be Muggleborn," Hermione said angrily, once they were alone. "I'm not! I'm proud of it. I'm proud that I've made it so far, when purebloods hate people like me." He waited, and she sighed. "It's just, it hurts, you know? Just as much in my time as here. Most wizards think Muggleborns are scum. That's what Yaxley had said, talking about vermin like me. Filthy, dirty, it just - ugh, I'm sorry." She turned away from him, rubbing at her face.
Tom carefully looked at the rough wall, at the dancing shadows that the dark flames cast. He was at a loss here. He had never been good at comforting people. That had been the absolute last thing on his mind before he had met this strange girl, and now that she needed comfort, he didn't know what to do. Embarrassment and shame were rolling off the bond in waves now, probably because she was crying in front of him, and he didn't know how to fix it.
Why did he feel the need? The person he was before her would have thought this action contemptible, and it would have been at that time, but now? Perhaps it was because he felt a certain obligation to her, or because of these feelings that he had no idea what to do with. He usually despised not being in control, but the confusion and chaos that she had stirred into his life were almost comforting.
Tom took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. Hermione turned around, her face a window into the shock the bond proclaimed. His eyes searched her tear-streaked face, which had only grown more beautiful with immortality. "You're better than them," he said quietly. "Every single one. There are no others like us, and if they protest that, even after we gain power, we will burn down the world to prove it." He smiled. "What does it matter if you have dirty blood? Their blood will be far dirtier than yours once it's soaked into the dust."
Her eyes widened as she drank in his words, and her hand rose, unbidden, to where the bond lay hidden beneath her robes. Her lips parted, and she gave a shaky laugh. "You're right, Tom." He ignored the thrill he felt in his chest when she said his name, and focused instead on the way her fingers closed around his. "You're completely right. I - I don't know why I thought any different."
Tom's hand lifted to her cheek, and he brushed her tears with his thumb. In the shadows, her eyes were dark pools that explored his face, as if seeking to memorize every detail. She put her other hand over his. "Burn down the world," she whispered. The bond held something he couldn't quite read, and Hermione smiled. "We'll do it," she said softly. She nodded, as if something had suddenly been decided for her, or she had chosen something for herself. She drew a deep breath and her eyes met his again, and he was momentarily startled at the fierceness in them. "I'm ready now."
I'm ready for this.
Her thought rose to the forefront of his mind through the bond, and somehow, he knew exactly what she meant.
No matter how much Hermione had convinced herself that she belonged here, with him, a part of her had always remained attached to the past. That was only natural, as her entire life there had been abruptly ripped away from her. She had never been able to say goodbye, which had made it difficult for her to connect here. But for her to say this . . .
It meant she was ready to leave her past life behind, to stop seeking a way to counteract the Reducite curse, and finally let go.
His thumb rubbed her cheekbone. "Are you quite, quite sure? I'm-" Tom smiled. "I'm not a good person."
Hermione laughed. "Believe me, I know. I'm well aware."
"Then why stay?"
Her eyes dropped, the bond a whirlwind of emotions, none of which he could identify. "I think you know why." The bond suddenly surged with cold terror.
His eyes widened, and her head snapped back up, her expression scared, defiant, heartbroken. "I don't expect anything of you in return. I just thought you should know."
She sought something in his gaze, something that he couldn't give her, and let out a long breath. "I'm not sure what I was expecting."
Tom's eyes never left hers. "I can't give you what you deserve."
She nodded, her countenance empty of emotion. "I know. I knew that going into it."
Night had fallen, and the single window overlooked the Malfoy grounds, overcast by innumerable glittering diamonds strewn across the black curtained sky. Hermione turned away from him to stare out at the expansive garden, the sliver of silver moon, and their reflections gazed back at him, reproaching him.
Tom would never admit it to her - he could hardly admit it to himself - but she meant far more to him than she seemed to think. He watched the faint moonlight filtering through her hair, the way her eyes reflected the stars. The way her hand rested on the Mark on her left arm, and the scar that lay underneath it. She had borne so much in her short life, and yet she approached everything with such enthusiasm. She had a strength to her that he had yet to find in anyone else.
He was disgusted at himself. Tom Riddle, having these disturbingly sentimental thoughts about a girl who he had met hardly a year ago. He was supposed to be one of the most powerful wizards in existence, besides Albus bloody Dumbledore and perhaps Grindelwald, but here he was. It was abhorrent, and yet . . .
And yet indeed.
She knew who he was. He yearned for her, desired her, but he couldn't love her.
His fingers, still resting on her hand, trailed over hers, up her arm and over her shoulder. Hermione shivered and closed her eyes. "I thought-"
Tom turned her back around to face him, and the words died on her lips. She stared at him, startled, and slowly reached up to rest her hand on the side of his face. He ran his thumb along her bottom lip. He realized he had backed her against the window, and he placed his hand against it. Her hand left his face to rest at the back of his neck, unknowingly pulling him closer. He tilted her head up, his eyes exploring hers, and leaned in, finally closing the distance between them as their lips joined.
There were no qualms this time. Hermione responded just as eagerly as he, tugging him closer, tangling her fingers in his hair as they released their longing into each other. He pulled her in his arms, kissing her deeply before trailing kisses up her jaw and into her soft hair, her warm breath on his neck.
Tom could feel her magic, just as he knew she could feel his, could feel the way their power mingled and spread over them, the way it called to him. Their mouths met again, his hunger for once matching hers, her impatient hands clutching his shirt, then wrapping around his neck in a firm embrace.
They had kissed before, of course, but somehow this was different. Perhaps it was the urgency, or the lack of control, or the way she melted against his mouth that left him, for the first time in his life, wanting more. Perhaps it was the fact that she had finally accepted who she was meant to be, realized her true calling, her destiny to rule by his side once they took over the world.
Perhaps this was the first time she remembered he had been her enemy.
Whatever it was, she was pressed against him, her mouth moving against his in a dangerous way, and he couldn't fight against it.
The door opened, light flooding into the room. They broke apart, but not before Abraxas quickly averted his eyes to the ground, his face turning a bright crimson. "Oh, Merlin, I'm so sorry - I, ah, I'll come back later."
Tom rolled his eyes, and Hermione sighed, letting go of him quite reluctantly. She carefully avoided eye contact, her eyes trained on the floor.
"What is it, Abraxas?" he asked, not even trying to keep the annoyance from his voice.
"Right. Well. The Knights were wanting to hold a meeting to plan the next course of action."
"Let the bloody Knights know I'm ten steps ahead of them, and I will call them to a meeting when I'm in the mood."
"I - yes, I will do that." Abraxas all but fled out of the door, submerging them in the tenebrous shadows once again.
"Malfoys," Tom muttered.
"Well," Hermione said slowly, "I suppose we had better head back. They'll be wondering where we disappeared off to."
"Let them wonder," he shrugged, pulling her close again.
She grinned up at him. "Adds to the aura of mystery, right?"
"Precisely."
She kissed him, then pulled away. "As long as Abraxas doesn't tell."
"Why would he tell?" Tom asked dryly. "If I know him, he'll either be trying to erase the image from his mind, or doing the same thing with Cecily."
Hermione laughed. "You don't give him enough credit."
"He's a Malfoy. He has more credit than he'll ever need."
A smile tugged at her lips, and she pressed one last kiss to his mouth before turning to the door. She had almost left, but turned back at the last moment. "Oh - Tom."
He raised his eyebrows in invitation, and she smirked.
"You might want to fix your hair."
Anya had been searching for a way out since she had arrived.
Oh, Malfoy Manor was beautiful. There was no denying its elegance, or the intricacy of its architecture, or the chandeliers that dripped diamonds from every ceiling.
But she didn't belong here.
All of these people gathered around Lord Voldemort and Lady Persephone - such strange names! - were fanatics, members of this cultish society that proclaimed revolution but hid behind a mask of benevolence. Their ideals were dangerous, their loyalty even more so, and she wanted no part of it.
Even worse were the leaders.
The face of Lord Voldemort - Tom Riddle, according to the Lestrange boy - was chiseled with the features of a Greek god, as if he were a Hellenic statue come to life. His eyes were just as cold, black diamonds that glittered in his handsome face. He surveyed the others, the Knights, as if they were all beneath him, and Anya could see the ruthlessness in his gaze . . . except when he locked eyes with the woman sitting next to him, and there was a strange sort of fondness before the chill entered his eyes again and he resumed watching over his kingdom.
The woman, Lady Persephone, Anya would have never expected to be sitting at the right hand of that man. Hermione Granger was pretty enough - perhaps not beautiful, but pretty - and her gaze belonged to that of a Magizoologist, rather than a ruler. She didn't look at the Knights as much as through them, silently probing them, searching for strengths and weaknesses, all with a strange smile on her face, as if she was keeping a secret that she knew they would never find out. She held the Elder Wand like it was the last treasure on earth, and every so often, she would lift her hand to touch something just below her collarbone.
Anya despised both of them.
She was startled out of her reverie when that evildoer, corrupter of the Durmstrang name, keeper of Dark knowledge, a monster brought forth into human flesh, asked her a question. She ignored Grindelwald, focusing instead on the way Lestrange's hair was curled. She held utter contempt for him - held contempt for everyone in this Merlin-forsaken place - but Lestrange was perhaps the least horrible out of all of them. Except for Oraia, of course. She would protect Oraia with her life.
The discussion finished, the two at the head rose first, then the Knights. The air was calmer now, less tense, less formal, and they talked amicably amongst themselves while she glared at them. They had no right to talk this freely, not when they were planning on overthrowing the bloody government! Granted, she held no true loyalty to the Ministry, but this was treason, through and through.
She needed to get out of here.
Anya rose, brushing off her skirt with a scowl, and turned to leave the room, but Grindelwald grabbed her hand. She jerked it out of his grip, her eyes ice, and her wand was soon at his throat. "Touch me again," she snarled, "and I will use this to blind you."
Grindelwald blinked. "Understood. I was just curious as to where you were going. I meant nothing by it."
Anya stared at him, trying to deduce whether he was lying. It had never been her strong suit, and Grindelwald was a master liar, so she put her wand away. Slowly. "It is no concern of yours," she said, and swept out of the room.
Or, at least, she tried to. What actually happened was she tripped over a fallen chair, landing on her hands and knees on the hard wooden floor. She winced and rose, rubbing at her legs, and glared at the hateful man, who was giving her a wicked smile. "I am glad chivalry has such a prominent place in your heart."
"I was under the impression that if I touched you, I'd lose my sight. I do so love my eyes."
"I - ugh!" She turned and strode away from him. The farther, the better.
After a long trek, Anya finally reached the entrance to Malfoy Manor. It was quiet here, the entire group back in the dining hall, and she was alone at last. She breathed in the silence.
The front doors beckoned her, called to her freedom, and she pulled on the lock.
It didn't budge.
She pulled on it harder, but it still didn't move an inch. It didn't make sense! They couldn't lock from the outside, could they? What doors did that? It completely defied the use of a door.
Which meant . . .
"Going somewhere?"
Anya spun around to see Riddle, a slight smile on his face, twirling the Elder Wand between his fingers. She glared at him. "Oh. You."
"Yes, me. Did you truly think you would be able to leave?"
"I didn't think I was a prisoner here," she snapped. "I saved Oraia's life, remember?"
"In a roundabout way, I suppose," he said. "And we're grateful for it. But you're not leaving."
"This makes no sense," Anya said. "I didn't ask for any of this!"
"And yet, here you are." Riddle gave her a sardonic smile. "You haven't been inducted yet, you know."
"I don't want to be inducted! I want to go home." Anya knew she sounded like a whining child, but she couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was trapped here? With their horrible cause, with the fanaticism and the madness and - and Grindelwald? It was more than she could bear. She turned away from him and pointed her wand at the locked doors. "Alohomora!"
"You know that won't work." It didn't, of course it didn't, and she spun back around to face him, her wand now digging into his throat.
Riddle gave a soft laugh, a laugh that sent chills up her arms. Merlin, who was this man? "Let me make some things clear," he said, and although he was smiling, his voice was devoid of all humor. "You want to go home? You're a fugitive. You were under house arrest, but you managed to evade the Auror stationed at your door somehow. With the lack of finesse I've seen from you, I would guess you just knocked him out and left him in your house, the blood running all over your floor for other Aurors to find later. Is this so?"
Anya paled.
"Good. Now, the Ministry will have a warrant out for your arrest. They are probably searching the houses as we speak. Clearly, you can't go home. Where else would you go?"
Anya opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head, glaring daggers at Riddle.
He nodded, as if that were exactly the answer he'd been expecting. "Interesting. It seems you have nowhere but here. How convenient."
"Listen," she spat, "I don't have time for mind games. I want nothing to do with your cult-" Riddle smiled at that, the nerve of him! "-and I would like to leave as soon as possible. Which would be now. Get out of my way."
His face didn't change expression, but somehow, the temperature seemed to have dropped. "I've been nice, Bulstrode. Under normal circumstances, I would let you go, free to live your dull life. But you've seen too much."
"So just Obliviate me."
"Leaving the information for our enemies to find later?" She frowned, and he rolled his eyes. "Just because your subconscious may forget it, it doesn't mean that the knowledge isn't still there."
"I couldn't care less about giving away your ridiculous secrets. Just let me free. I won't go blabbing."
"Ah, but see, Bulstrode, that is precisely what you'll do. The Ministry knows you're with us - they just don't know where - and they know you've been around us long enough to have picked up some information, probably information that they want. You have no loyalty to us, and when the Ministry gives you a bribe large enough for you to live lavishly for the rest of your miserable time here, of course you'll tell them everything you know."
Anya grew uncomfortable at the truth of those words, and she pushed past him. "I'll break the door down if I have to."
"That's the problem with violent people," Riddle said dryly. "That's their only language. Very well. I'll speak to you in a way you'll understand."
She turned back around to face him, searching for any sort of sign in his eyes, his posture, but he gave nothing away. He looked almost . . . bored. "I could make you forget everyone and everything you have ever known, so you are just a walking husk of a person with no reason to live." He tilted his head. "If you would like, I could kill every member of your family and deposit the bodies in your drawing-room." Riddle smiled, and it was a cold smile, his eyes flickering red. "Or, of course, I could use magic."
The blood left her face, and she clenched her jaw. "I . . . I won't leave."
"Smart girl."
Anya's hands were shaking, but not from fear. From fury.
"Remember what I said, Bulstrode," he said over his shoulder as he turned to leave. "You won't go anywhere unless I allow it."
Unless he allowed it.
She would destroy him. Eventually. She would destroy him and Granger and this entire manor. She would burn it to ashes.
For now, she would have to sit back, mind her manners . . . and plan her escape.
Dawn was quickly approaching, causing the shadows to retreat into the dark corners of the world. As the rising sun painted the sky with burnished crimson, the light mirrored itself through the fog that lay on the pond in the middle of the grounds. The gardens and hedges were perfectly maintained, in an imitation of the environment, but the pond was the only area that embodied the true wildness of nature, although even that paled in comparison.
However, it was better than nothing, and as Hermione swirled her finger through the water, causing ripples to spread across the otherwise calm surface, she reveled in the peace with which these early mornings gifted her.
Between the dinner with the Knights, stress over the plan, and her earlier conversation with Cecily, she had hardly slept at all last night. She could only hope that the early-morning darkness would hide the shadows under her eyes. Everyone else was asleep, but after battling with insomnia for the entire duration of the night, she'd decided she didn't want to stay another minute in her bed. Exhausted as she was, she had found this little hidden nook in the Malfoys' garden, and she fully intended to stay here until late morning, at least. She needed a break, not wanting to be in that horrid manor for another minute.
Hermione had been tortured there. She had been dragged into the drawing-room, under the chandelier that was a slightly larger version of the ones that decorated nearly every room, and had been put under the Cruciatus curse until she couldn't feel the pain anymore, like it had been happening to another person. Every black tile floor, every inch of wallpaper reminded her of its twin that she had stared at until she was sick of the sight of it. Every fireplace reminded her of the agony of Bellatrix's knife.
Her hand automatically reached up to touch the scar on her left forearm, finding it, as she always did, covered by the Dark Mark, and she brought her hand down quickly. She hated the sight of that, too, and she tried to forget that it was there as often as she could. The black skull mocked her, the snake twisting around her arm a declaration of her betrayal of everything she had once believed in.
No, she mustn't think that. She was doing good here. She was changing things. It might not be the way Harry would do it, or Ron, but she was helping all half-bloods and Muggleborns who had suffered and would suffer under the Ministry's pureblood supremacy.
And if that involved becoming mixed up in politics and power and eternal glory and him, well, who could blame her for not being able to stay away?
Hermione fought a yawn, finally succumbing to it as she shifted to make her position more comfortable against the tree on which she was leaning. Her back ached, and she grew tempted to stand up and face the day. Well, get through it. She wouldn't ask too much of herself. She stretched, but froze as she heard someone walking through the grass toward her.
It was Cecily, who appeared as if she had gotten just as much sleep as Hermione had. Her eyes were puffy and red, like she'd been crying. She paused, uncharacteristically nervous. "May I sit?"
"Of course," Hermione replied. She tried to keep the tightness from her voice, but it was hard when she had no idea what Cecily had come for.
Cecily sat next to her, fidgeting with her skirt."I - I just wanted to . . . apologize."
Hermione turned to face her. "I said some rather awful things myself."
"But I said them first, and what I said was inexcusable. I tried to justify it, but . . . there's no justifying those horrible words. I really am sorry, Hermione." Cecily had never been a very apologetic person, but her face was the embodiment of guilt.
"I'm sorry too." Cecily gave a weak smile, and Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "Oh, let's forget about all of this. It's all been rather ridiculous, hasn't it?"
"Yes!" Cecily burst out. "All of it."
Hermione thought for a moment. "You were saying I have issues with trusting people, right? That I should've trusted you more. So. Ask me a question, and I'll try to answer it the best I can."
Cecily smiled softly. "There's really only one thing I'm curious about, actually. May I ask it?" She waited for Hermione to nod before continuing. "Why did you travel back to our time?"
"It was an accident," Hermione admitted. "I was duelling someone, and he sent the Reducite spell at me. I'm not sure he knew what it actually did; all he knew was that the Ministry had labelled it as a highly-classified, dangerous spell, so of course he used it against me." She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice. "I searched and searched, but I never found a way to counteract it." She let out a deep breath. "But it's okay. That part of my life's over, and now I have something new to look forward to."
Cecily nodded, her eyes thoughtful. "Was the Ministry as bad in your time as it is now?"
"Worse," Hermione said. "Of course, there are far more opportunities for half-bloods, but the corruption grew so horrible. And they left a few teenagers to fight a war that they should've been on the front lines for." She smiled. "I'm sure you don't want to hear everything I have to say about the Ministry, we'll be here all morning."
Cecily shifted her position on the grass, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm not doing anything else today." Hermione laughed.
As they talked, sharing stories from their childhood, their dreams and aspirations, Hermione realized just how little she knew about Cecily Parkinson. They had met through a mutual acquaintance, and had bonded through a common cause, but their friendship had been formed on a very shaky foundation, which the newly-instilled hierarchy had destroyed. And as Cecily talked about herself, sharing things she had told no one else, not even Abraxas, Hermione began to piece her ideas together.
Cecily was the youngest child in a family of four. Her parents, respectable purebloods who were often absent, favored her brother over her, as he was the one who represented everything the Parkinson family name stood for. He was proud, haughty and, as a male, was the one who would work for the Ministry after he graduated. Her mother viewed Cecily as a girl of lesser intelligence, and worked instead on cultivating the beauty of her daughter. And Cecily grew up beautiful.
But she also grew up perceptive. She worked ceaselessly to gain the approval of her parents, who always turned a blind eye to her achievements and praised her brother, and she soon realized that she would never obtain the validation that she so desired.
And then she was placed in Slytherin.
With the help of Oraia and Lucretia, who befriended her almost immediately, she began to piece together secrets her parents had tried to keep hidden. Her mother, for example, going by the name of Fenix, ran an underground sanctuary for wizards who had defied the law, and was adding to the Parkinson fortune with the money she received from the grateful fugitives. Her father she suspected of cheating, when Cecily had him followed and he, contrary to what he had told his wife, rode a Muggle cab to his secretary's house, instead of attending the meeting to which he'd claimed he was going. This "meeting" occurred every two weeks.
Cecily was disgusted by both.
She began to distance herself from the Parkinson name. Oh, she was still proud to be a Parkinson, but she no longer strived to obtain validation from the two people she had once longed to hear praise from the most. However, her lonely heart still craved it, and in her seventh year, as she watched Hermione climb to the top while she was still stuck at the bottom, not even allowed to attend a meeting, resentment grew until she couldn't bear it. Learning Hermione had lied about her origin had been the final straw, and she'd lashed out.
Hermione couldn't find it in herself to blame the girl any longer. She knew what it was to seek the approval of people who looked down on her, and their past fight now seemed petty and childish.
And Cecily sat and listened as Hermione shared about herself. She described her Muggle family, her adventures at Hogwarts with Harry and Ron. She described falling in love with Ron in her fourth year, and how when he finally kissed her during the Battle of Hogwarts, she felt like she was flying. She talked about Voldemort's rise to power, and about travelling with Harry and Ron to hunt for the Horcruxes. But when she reached her memory of Malfoy Manor, she found she couldn't continue, panic causing her chest to tighten and spots to swim in front of her eyes.
"Would you like to just show me?" Cecily asked gently.
"I don't have a Pensieve," Hermione said.
Cecily gave an embarrassed grin and opened her bag, pulling out a shrunken Pensieve. Hermione stared, and Cecily shrugged. "It's probably the most important thing I keep in here, besides a Muggle hairdryer. Don't tell my parents I buy Muggle products."
"You - why?"
Cecily laughed. "Drying charms frizz up my hair."
Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, and gave a small laugh. "Alright then."
Cecily enlarged the Pensieve, and Hermione, her hand shaking, retrieved the memory and placed it into the clear liquid. It turned dark and cloudy, and the horrid memory was revealed in flashes. She swallowed, and Cecily took her hand. "You don't have to share if you don't want to."
"No," Hermione said firmly. "I need to move past this."
Cecily paused, then nodded, her hand still clasped in Hermione's as they entered the memory.
It was just as horrible as Hermione remembered. The sound of her own screams echoed throughout the drawing-room, the sound of Bellatrix cackling as she indulged in her sadist delights, the sound of her victim's sobs traveling around the room like poison. Cecily held onto Hermione's arm, her face white, as she watched Bellatrix carve a slur into Hermione's skin.
And yet . . .
Even as the tears streamed down her cheeks, the memory of her torture all too fresh, she now had an outsider's perspective. She saw her own pain, but she also saw that of the others. Lucius sneered, but the lines around his face were tight with discomfort. Narcissa's face was pale even as she held her head high, and Draco's green, as if he was about to be violently ill. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, shame evident on his features.
She saw Ron rush upstairs, closely followed by Harry, saw the battle that took place afterwards, the horror and desperation that shone in their eyes as Bellatrix held the knife up to Hermione's throat, the love as she finally ran to them after Dobby felled the chandelier, and by the time the memory ended and they returned to the pond, she was sobbing, but Cecily was too, and they clutched each other as the only lifeline in a sea of nightmares.
The sun had grown higher and higher, and her stomach was rumbling and her voice was hoarse. "We should go inside," Cecily said, drying her eyes with a handkerchief. "They'll probably be asking for us."
Hermione released a shuddering sigh. "Let's not fight anymore."
"Never again," Cecily vowed.
Hermione smiled as a weight lifted from her shoulders.
It was a start.
Tom was waiting for her in the garden, his fingers trailing absentmindedly over the petals of a delphinium, his brow furrowed in thought. He turned as she approached. "Ah, there you are. I've been meaning to talk to you about Azkaban."
"What about it?" Hermione asked, sitting on one of the stone benches that had been placed very precisely by the hedge. "The evils of it, or how it's basically a torture chamber, or how there's not nearly enough of a trial to justify sending someone there in the first place, or how it's a fate worse than death?"
He let out his breath in a soft laugh. "This is precisely the reason you're the person to discuss this with." He walked over to sit next to her, and his eyes studied a gargoyle on the wall of the manor. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Of course," Hermione said, taken aback.
Tom's eyes were still watching the statue. "I don't know how we're going to get rid of it."
Hermione shrugged. "Bomb it. Set it on fire. Sink it into the ocean."
His lips twitched in a semblance of a smile. "Yes, but what do we do with the prisoners? Half of them will be completely mad, the other half will be on the way, and all of them will be unstable at the very least. That doesn't even take into account what we're going to do with all of them."
She thought for a moment. "The Ministry has some cells in the dungeons that they used before Azkaban. We could hold the prisoners in there, maybe repurpose the cells themselves, while they're waiting for their trial. We could even build some new ones if there's not enough room."
He nodded thoughtfully. "And what of the Dementors?"
"Burn them."
"Is that your solution to everything?"
"If it has to do with Azkaban, yes."
Tom shook his head, still smiling, but he again grew pensive. "Why do they need to be destroyed? They're powerful creatures. We could make them loyal, instead of getting rid of valuable resources."
"Those valuable resources kill people, Tom."
"Which is necessary sometimes."
Hermione grimaced. "Not unless it's absolutely unavoidable. And even so, there are much less painful ways to go about it, instead of having them suck out the person's soul."
"Some people deserve it," he shrugged lightly.
"Oh, you're one to talk," Hermione scoffed. "The one who split his soul through patricide, talking of morality."
"That's not good form, bringing personal attacks into an argument."
"Some people deserve it," she quipped.
"You're stooping low today, Granger. Most people would be dead by now."
"I'm not most people, though, am I?"
"That depends," he replied, "on quite a few things."
"Like what?"
"Oh, like how annoying you're being at any particular moment."
"I could never annoy you," she said smugly. "In fact, I think I do the complete opposite."
"Which is what?" he asked, the faintest touch of a smile on his face.
"I bless you with my presence," she said, "because you're madly, hopelessly in love with me."
"That's revolting to think about."
She burst out laughing. "I think I'm offended."
"Good. Maybe you'll finally give me some peace and quiet."
She grinned and caught his eye, then cleared her throat and stared far too hard at the gargoyle. "So. Azkaban."
"What about it?"
"It has to go. Nobody deserves that."
"Not even me?" he asked, giving her an infuriating smirk.
"You're not nobody," she said softly, and he smiled, a real smile this time, and her heart did a little flip. She drew a deep breath and continued. "But that also includes the Dementors. They're evil creatures, and I don't really see how we can justify keeping them around."
"I suppose you're right. There are more creative ways to kill people."
"Tom, that's not the focus here!"
"I think it is a perfectly legitimate concern," he said seriously. "After all, that's what we would be using them for, and we need something to fill that gap."
She gaped at him in amazement. "You're completely horrible."
"You only just figured that out?"
Hermione shook her head. "Anyway."
"You can't kill Dementors."
She turned to face him. "What?"
"They feed off of negative emotions," Tom said. "You can't kill them, because they're already dead. They only exist because there are so many negative aspects to our world, and hopelessness fuels them."
"What if we just keep them quarantined on the island?" Hermione suggested. "We're not getting rid of them, exactly, but they're still out of the way."
"That could work," Tom murmured, his eyes glazed in thought.
She squeezed his fingers. "We'll figure this out."
"Of course we will," he said, turning his gaze on her. His lips quirked. "We are, after all, immortal. We have all the time in the world."
Albus turned the fake wand over in his hands, his eyes thoughtful behind his half-moon spectacles. It was strange what one would do when under the pressure of guilt. Strange, strange. He wondered what Gellert would think if he ever learned that Albus had given one of the Deathly Hallows away to a young girl, a girl who advocated for social and political upheaval, and had promised to deliver.
He popped a lemon drop in his mouth, relaxing as the sugary sweetness dissolved on his tongue. He closed his eyes. He was free of it now. Free of the guilt. Perhaps this way he could finally carry out what he had originally intended with Gellert when they were just boys, delving into ideas that put them way over their heads. He saw a lot of the two of them in the figures of Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle. He hoped that the Riddle boy wouldn't lead her down the same path.
Albus absentmindedly ran a finger along the bristles of his short-cut auburn beard, and despite himself, despite everything, he smiled. The girl possessed a spark that he hadn't had at her age. She was fueled by hope. Perhaps - although he hardly dared to think it - perhaps she could not only avoid going down the wrong path, but steer the boy in the right direction as well.
It was a small wish, almost a pipe dream, but he clung to it.
He had no idea where he'd gone wrong with the boy. He had seemed off at the orphanage, but Albus had assumed that was just the boy's Muggle upbringing, and didn't have anything to do with the psychopathy by which the child was plagued. It had followed him as he grew up, and he had noticed the boy growing colder, clearer, as if he had realized his calling and it was not an easy path to follow. That worried Albus, who kept a close eye on him, but he could never seem to catch Tom doing anything that would incriminate him.
That is, until that disastrous Chamber of Secrets event. And even then, those were just suspicions, theories, that never fully manifested any proof. Tom was clever and cunning, even as a child, and as he charmed his way into his teachers' hearts and studied his way into a glistening reputation, he somehow always managed to avoid getting caught. It was completely maddening, but Albus was patient.
Too patient, he thought disgustedly. And now the boy had graduated and was completely out of his reach, free to wreak whatever havoc he pleased and dragging that poor girl along with him.
Well, his intentions were clear now. Tom was going by a different name now - Lord Voldemort. Albus snorted. The boy had always been arrogant, and this was further proof. Voldemort. Flight from death. Pretentious dastard.
Ah, well. Albus would catch him yet. If Hermione Granger wasn't willing to fix him, save him from the destructive path that he was carving out for himself, Albus would have to do it himself.
His mind was already studying the chessboard, moving pieces around as needed. They were all important to the game, some more so than others, but even a pawn could cause a checkmate, and the queen could fall at the beginning. He hoped that wouldn't be the case; the queen was vitally important for increasing the likelihood of victory, and he would not like to play the game with only pawns. It put him at a great disadvantage, and pawns fell so quickly.
Still, Albus had a feeling he was going to need a lot of them.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Don't forget to write a review!
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