Flight of the Stars
Rated T
By DarkLadySwan
Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, Harry's kid wouldn't be named "Albus Severus". I think that's proof enough.
A/N: Thank you to CarolineGoldilocks, Lady among the trees, and meggiewalters121314 for following, CarolineGoldilocks, Lady among the trees, popstar055, and meggiewalters121314 for favoriting, and AnneLM and Guest (Guest) (Oh, thank you so much! And that's really smart, and I'd have to agree with you. I just don't think he realizes it yet because he's never felt something like this before, so he doesn't recognize it for what it is.) for reviewing!
"Dangerously having the time of our lives.
These boys are just poisonous thorns in our sides.
Starting fires wherever we go,
Watching them gamble everything they own,
Singing oh, oh-oh-oh, oh,
Trouble."
~ Trouble by Valerie Broussard
The Mudblood took her seat at the right hand of Tom Riddle, and Gordon Macnair's hatred festered.
She stacked her notes into a neat pile, smoothing out any crinkles - even the sound made his chest burn with loathing! - and smiled at all of the gathered Death Eaters. Gordon refused to call them by their disgusting new name - Knights of Wrepulgis, or whatever it was. Too much had changed since the Mudblood had arrived, and he wanted to retain whatever he could. And if that included even small things, like keeping the original name for their group in his mind, so be it.
He cursed the day she had walked into their meeting for the first time.
He screamed against it.
He dreamed of putting his hands to her throat, squeezing the life out of her, feeling her bones snap, seeing the fear and panic in her eyes - no, he must not indulge in thoughts such as these. He might actually turn them to reality, and that could not happen yet.
It would. Just not yet. It was not time.
Not time.
Not time.
But soon.
Very soon.
The Mudblood cleared her throat. "Well. We're back."
Everyone laughed. Except for Gordon. He wanted to wipe the grin right off of her face. Maybe he could break her nose. Just a little break. Nothing major. It might satisfy this craving.
"As you all know, we're going to approach this slowly. We won't be rushing into the Ministry and destroying it. It's going to be a subtle infiltration, and each of you has an extremely important part to play."
They murmured amongst themselves, and Dolohov nudged him, his face tight with tension. "Try to relax, Gordon. You look like you want to murder someone."
Oh, did he. He'd never wanted to murder someone more in his life. But patience. Patience. He'd get the revenge that he craved. Patience. All would be taken care of.
"We will not disclose the details of your roles here," Tom said. "After the meeting, you will all come and see us privately, and we will tell you your task in secret." His eyes looked around the room, and Gordon stared, eager for eye contact. Tom's eyes merely swept over his, and he felt strangely disappointed. "You will not, under any circumstances, reveal your task to others. Is that clear?"
They all nodded, Gordon included. Maybe Tom would finally notice him. He hadn't paid him any mind after that horrible night in the Chamber. Gordon still bore the scars from that, still woke up screaming. And yet he still sought Tom's approval.
"You're all dismissed."
"Wait - that's it?" Carrow asked, surprised.
"What else were you expecting?" the Mudblood asked curiously. Gordon imagined stabbing her, the point piercing through Slytherin's locket, which she always wore around her neck. That helped, a little. No filth such as she should be able to wear something as precious as that locket. That belonged to a pureblood.
Carrow shrugged, and the Mudblood had the audacity to smile. "Don't worry. Hopefully, all of your questions will be answered when we talk later. If not, it's for a good reason."
Carrow returned her smile and nodded, and Gordon found himself wanting to strangle him, too. No one should look at vermin with anything less than disgust.
Except for Tom, but he was different. He was Tom Riddle, the greatest pureblood to ever live. Gordon could only hope to be allowed to walk in his shadow.
His eyes found the Mudblood's, and she gave him an inquisitive look, her head tilted. He never broke eye contact, hoping his eyes portrayed all of the hatred his heart held. Someday, she would know the true extent of his revulsion, his loathing, and she would be afraid. For he knew her secret, the true knowledge of her heritage, and he would do whatever it took to make sure it destroyed her. Just as she'd destroyed him.
She would learn what it was to be humiliated beyond repair.
Cecily grinned. "It's time."
Hermione exhaled nervously, trying to calm her hammering heart. Cecily took her hand, squeezing her fingers. "Oh, Hermione, don't worry. It's going to be a breeze. Trust me."
Hermione nodded, and Cecily beamed before leading her into the powder room, where Lucretia was already waiting.
"Lucy!"
Lucretia returned her hug eagerly, her eyes scanning Hermione's face. "Hermione darling, it's been forever. How did it all go?"
"Like clockwork," Hermione said, sitting on the stool. She locked eyes with Lucy in the mirror and tugged self-consciously on her hair before turning to face her. "You now have the privilege of looking at a Master of Death."
"Oh, how wonderful! You know I had no doubt that you'd accomplish it," Lucretia said proudly, giving her another hug. Hermione smiled despite her nerves. But after a moment, Lucretia was all business again, turning Hermione around so she could get a good look at herself in the mirror. "This. Look at this. Is this what you call fixing your hair?"
Hermione laughed. "It was an early morning."
"That's no excuse! Did you even look at the book I gave you at all during your trip?"
"No," Hermione admitted sheepishly, and Lucretia sighed.
"How can I be expected to do my magic when I have this to work with? Oh, well. I'm not a Black for nothing, I suppose."
Lucretia had pinned her blonde hair into perfect victory rolls, complimenting an impossibly beautiful face. Hermione frowned. How could she compete with that?
"Don't frown - it causes wrinkles," Lucy said absentmindedly, running her fingers through Hermione's rather wild brunette curls. "Salazar, I'm glad we started early. We have a lot of work to do."
Hermione tried not to feel insulted.
Despite her comments, Lucretia made quick work of it. The Black family had invented hair charms to protect their historically flawless hair, and their daughter had thrown herself into the role of hair stylist with exuberance. Through the touch of her fingers, she subdued Hermione's once-untamed curls, then set to work lengthening the coils and thickening the strands, so that her hair hung down her back in luxuriant waves. Then she Transfigured a box of sweet-smelling pine needles into a container of bobby pins.
"I suppose these are a bit out of fashion," Lucretia said as she worked. "They go much better with bobbed cuts or those flapper hairstyles everyone did in the 20's, but it gets the job done, and they really hold your hair quite nicely."
In a few minutes, she had pinned Hermione's hair into a beautiful, complicated updo, and left a few strands to frame her face. "There. I think that's the best one yet. But we're running out of time. What are you going to wear?"
"I thought that was your job," Hermione said, confused, and Lucretia smiled.
"It is. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't chosen anything you wanted to wear before I picked something out. It's waiting on the bed."
Hermione opened the adjoining door to see a lovely dress laid out, about knee-length and a rich green in color. A set of pearls was laid next to it, along with matching green heels.
"I'll certainly be dressed to the nines," she said, her fingers trailing along the pearls. "It's beautiful."
"That's the point," Cecily said, entering through a side door. "Oh, I love your hair. You never miss, Lucy."
"I know," Lucretia said, smiling back at her. She turned to Hermione. "Well, go on then. Try it on. I'll help you with your buttons."
Hermione felt like she'd stepped back in time, which she had, as she pulled on the green muslin. She held still while Lucy did her buttons in the back, then spun once, letting the skirt twirl. Oh, to have these fashions in the 90's - no, don't think about then. Think about now, she told herself, as Lucy tucked pearls into her hair and tied pearls around her neck and put pearls in her pierced ears. She slipped into the tight-fitting green heels, and the transformation was complete.
"Hermione, darling, you look perfect," Cecily beamed.
"Almost perfect," Lucretia said, rushing to the powder room. "She still needs makeup!"
"She looks just fine without it."
"Just fine is not the same as perfect, Cecily dear," Lucretia retorted, returning with her arms full of bottles and brushes and other such things that Hermione couldn't make sense of. She'd given up trying long ago.
Lucretia hurriedly applied makeup. "Blink. Blink. Good. Now part your lips. Purse them together." She tilted her head, thinking. "More mascara." She grabbed the wand. "Blink."
Hermione sighed.
But finally, they had finished, and as she stared at herself in the mirror, she almost didn't recognize herself. Her eyebrows were plucked, her lips an exquisite shade of red, her hair in large curls and into an elegant updo that reminded her of the pictures she'd seen of Marilyn Monroe. She was a 1940's darling.
"Brilliant, Lucy," she said quietly. "I knew you were the perfect choice."
Lucretia smiled, pink tingeing her cheeks.
A knock sounded at the door. Cecily walked across the room and opened it to see Abraxas, his hand raised to knock again. He let it fall to his side, and they exchanged soft smiles. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, then took her hand as he walked inside. "Everyone's ready to go, and by everyone, I mean Tom, so you'd better hurry."
"His Majesty can wait just a few more minutes," Lucretia said primly, straightening the pearls around Hermione's neck. "I hardly think that will make much difference."
"We're already fifteen minutes late," Abraxas said drily. He grinned at Hermione. "You look fantastic."
She returned his smile and gently removed Lucretia's hand. "Abraxas is right, Lucy. We really do need to go."
"Oh, all right," she huffed. She quickly kissed Hermione's cheek. "You look lovely, darling. And don't worry, it's going to be perfectly delightful."
Hermione hoped so. She didn't have a plan, otherwise. If this went south . . .
She followed Abraxas out of the room, hoping the click of her heels against the tile floor disguised the pounding of her heart.
Hermione's fingers were tangled in Tom's as they stepped into the splendid atrium of the Ministry. Her eyes took in its magnificence, the golden statuesque fountains, the towering ceilings and gilded fireplaces. At the same time, the memories suddenly overwhelmed her - infiltrating the Ministry in order to steal back the locket, the prejudice, the dementors, fleeing to the forest. It was all too much, and it was only the exaggerated patience she felt through the bond that made her realize she was holding his hand far too tight.
Sorry about that.
You really need to relax. What's there to fear here? Peacocks?
Hermione held back a laugh as she glanced around the atrium, at all of the strutting, preening Ministry employees. They really do play the part to perfection, don't they?
Tom didn't answer, and she risked a glance at him to see a small, mocking smile curve across his lips, his dark eyes holding every bit of the arrogance for which she knew him so well. Truly.
A Ministry official greeted them, introducing them to the young journalist who would be conducting the interview, whom they pretended not to know. Cecily played her part very well, too, her eyes shining with the excitement of a girl who had gotten her very first exclusive. "Come with me, please," she said in a perky voice, and they followed her and her sunny disposition to an expansive room where an entire team of people was already waiting for them.
I thought it was just going to be us and Cecily, she thought, panicked.
Apparently not, Tom replied, stony anger lacing his voice. Whatever happens, stay in character. Don't break out of it for anything.
She gave him a mental nod, allowing his training to come rushing back. Before those days in the Room of Requirement, she had been able to lie well, but it had been foreign to her, as she'd had to learn through experience - a painful experience, which she desperately wished to never repeat again. But that was before he had taught her the art of a cleverly crafted falsehood, the beauty of assuming the behaviors and characteristics of another person and allowing them to consume her. She had found it strangely exhilarating, and found it even more so now.
She lifted her head, the haughty pureblood who had just found her place in society, and her hand slid up to the crook of his arm. This would be a difficult part to play. She needed to put on airs, but add just a touch of uncertainty behind it, as someone who had just discovered her pureblood heritage. At least she and Tom could play off of each other, and she wouldn't be working alone.
"So," Cecily said brightly, no recognition showing in her eyes, as they took a seat in the comfortable chairs that faced the cameras, "tell me a little about yourself. Is it true that the legendary Sacred Twenty-Eight may no longer be only twenty-eight?"
Hermione let out a deep breath and smiled, the smile of a girl who was nervous, excited, and proud. At least, she hoped that was what it was. "It is. As I was tracing back my family's lineage one day, I came across an extended version of the Granger family tree. As shocking as it is to believe, nowhere do the records indicate that any member of the Granger family married a Muggle. The tree showed as far back as Gryffindor himself, and there appears to be no evidence of any blood traitors in our family." She inwardly winced. She despised saying those words, as they had been once used as an insult against one of her best friends.
"Fascinating." Cecily's eyes sparkled. "Does the same hold true for you, Mr. Riddle?"
"I am still one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Tom said coolly, "as I am descended from the Gaunts."
"Do you hope to carry their legacy with you, and perhaps better it, once you and Miss Granger are married?"
Hermione put a pretty blush on her cheeks, as she stammered, "Oh - no, he and I aren't - that is to say -"
"We aren't engaged," Tom said, giving her the amused glance of a doting pureblood who carried far too much patience. "She was a bit nervous and was wanting some emotional support."
"Oh! My apologies." Cecily leaned forward. "But surely a marriage between the two of you would strengthen your recently-discovered pureblood ties, would it not?"
Tom smiled, as if the idea were a novel one. "That it would. What an interesting thought." He winked at Hermione, who turned pink. She embarrassedly admitted to herself that her blush wasn't all acting, but she put on a shy smile for the cameras in an attempt to regain control.
He sure knew how to put on a charming face. That was for certain.
Cecily rose, shaking first Tom's hand, then Hermione's. "Thank you so much for your time."
"No, thank you," Hermione beamed. "We're so excited to get my story out to the public, and I hope other people can be as fortunate as I've been."
"As fortunate," Cecily repeated, jotting that down as well. "Yes, you truly have been, haven't you? Imagine discovering that you were a half-blood, or even a Mudblood! I think I'd rather die." She gave a girlish giggle, as if that were the most preposterous idea in the world.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Hermione said carefully. This could either go very well, or very, very poorly. "Perhaps someone will give more privileges to the half-bloods and Muggleborns, and they wouldn't be so looked-down-upon."
"Don't count on it," Tom said, like they were having a pleasant conversation between the two of them, completely oblivious to the cameras pointed directly at them. "Purebloods like their privileges. They won't be so willing to give them up."
"Oh!" Hermione said, pretending to notice the cameras. "I had no idea we were still being interviewed. How silly of me." She gave a giggle much like Cecily's. "I tend to say things I shouldn't, sometimes."
"Yes, well, we had best be off." Tom put a hand at the small of her back, leading her away from the cameras, but making sure they were still within earshot. "You were wonderful, Miss Granger."
She smiled up at him, turning her best angle to the cameras. "Oh, just call me Hermione. We've certainly known each other long enough."
His lips curled up into a smile. "You must call me Tom in return."
"I will," she smiled. He smiled back, and Hermione could feel the viewers' hearts melting. Or, at least, they would be once the transcript was released to the public. She often forgot how far behind the 40's technology was from the 90's.
They made it outside of the room, and after they had made sure they were away from prying eyes, she leaned her head against the wall, letting out a deep breath. "Dear Merlin. That was exhausting."
"You were charming as always," Tom said.
"And you," she returned, flashing him a quick smile. "Once they print the pictures, especially if they enchant them to move like they always do, half of England will be in love with you."
"Only half?"
"The other half will be in love with me," she said smugly, undoing the intricate updo. She ran a hand through her loose waves and they tumbled over her shoulders.
"I think Lucretia's rubbing off on you," he said, his eyes watching her.
Her cheeks burned under his gaze, to her annoyance. "Yes, well, she's confident and that's a good quality to emulate." She gave him a teasing smile. "You've rubbed off on me a bit, too."
His dark eyes danced. "Is that so?"
She took his arm again, her hand brushing down to meet his, and their fingers interlaced as they walked out of the Ministry. "You know what I mean."
"Yes," he said, the bond a mixture of amusement and fondness. "I do."
Rufus gave a little gasp of pain as the Dark Mark burned. He lifted the sleeve of his left arm, and sure enough, the skull and snake had turned an inky black, the snake now twisting around his arm rather than lying dormant. He glanced around the room, but no one else seemed to be reacting to anything.
It seemed Tom wanted a private audience with him.
He summoned the knives hidden in his sleeves with a flick of his wrists, feeling courage ebb into him as his fingers felt the familiar leather of the hilts. He flipped them, just to remind himself of how accomplished he was, then hid them back in his sleeves with another wrist flick.
Some thought his habits were strange, but knives were so much more interesting than wands.
He strode toward the library - that was almost always where Tom held private meetings - and opened the heavy oak doors to see Tom studying the cover of a book he had pulled out. He snapped it shut as Rufus entered. "Ah. Lestrange. Come in."
Rufus already had, but he pretended he hadn't as he closed the doors behind him. "My Lord."
"You've always had a knack for punctuality," Tom said approvingly. "I believe you entered precisely two minutes after I called for you."
Rufus blinked. Was he complimenting him? This was a strange day. "Thank you, my Lord."
"Take a seat. We have some things to discuss."
Rufus sat, resisting the urge to pull out his knives again. What was so important that Tom had him sitting for this? Requesting a private audience - and summoning him formally with the Dark Mark - meeting in the library, complimenting him, telling him to sit, and . . .
Yes, he was seeing correctly. Tom was pouring him a drink.
What in Merlin's name was going on? Unless - that was a distinct possibility.
He could be receiving his task.
This really was a strange day.
"Tell me, Lestrange, and this may sound rather odd: do you have any qualms about murder?"
Rufus blinked once, stared, then blinked again as his mind struggled to come up with a rational response. "Um, not if the person deserves it, why?"
"And what would you say qualifies a person to be executed?"
"I - I don't know!" he stammered. "Why in Merlin's name is this important?"
"Take a shot," Tom suggested, and Rufus did so readily. "Now answer the question."
The alcohol took effect rather quickly, as he was a lightweight and knew it, and he found he was more sure of himself, if a bit fuzzy. He leaned forward, a confident smile on his face. "I think nothing qualifies a person to be murdered, exactly. It's all subjective, isn't it? I mean, you might feel that someone's actions should be punished with the death penalty, while another person feels that he should just have extended jail time. It's all a matter of personal opinion." Where had that come from? He agreed with all of it, sure, but he'd been an incoherent mess just a few moments before.
Tom nodded, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Good. Very good. I have a job for you - not a task, but a job. This will be extended, not simply a one-time arrangement."
Rufus frowned, wondering if the alcohol was muddling his brain more than he thought. "What job, my Lord?"
"Now, that's the point, isn't it?" Tom stood up, walking over to gaze at the fire. "No matter what, you cannot breathe a word of what I say to anyone. This includes Anya."
Rufus blanched, and Tom turned around, a mocking smile on his face. "Oh, yes, I know you've brought each other into confidence. She seems to have taken a liking to you, and that's saying quite a lot. And don't even try to deny your activities with each other outside of providing information."
The color flooded to Rufus's face. Surely he didn't know! No one knew. Anya had told him that he was the only reason she hadn't burned down the place yet - and he believed her. No, Tom must be bluffing.
But his eyes were far too knowing for him to be making things up.
"As I said," Tom continued, "not a word."
"I won't say anything," Rufus promised.
Tom nodded. He stepped closer and tilted his head, his black eyes narrowed. "Lestrange, how would you like to be my assassin?"
Rufus stared, his mouth parted. Was this a dream? Hardly aware of what he was doing, he flicked his knives out again, staring at them. "Your assassin?"
"I take it you're satisfied?"
"Are you kidding?" Rufus was beside himself. "This is amazing! I won't let you down, I swear it."
"That's why I chose you," Tom said, looking pleased. "I don't know yet when your first assignment will be certain. I know you're looking forward to it, but you cannot tell anyone of your new role."
"I won't breathe a word," Rufus said, flipping his knives. "You can count on me."
Hermione walked down the hall, unable to keep a smile off of her face. To be fair, there was rather a lot to smile about at the moment. She hadn't been sure Rufus Lestrange would feel comfortable with his job as assassin, but he'd not only accepted it, but seemed to view it as his life's calling. She often saw him practicing with his throwing knives until long after dusk.
Why don't you use a wand? she'd asked, to which he'd replied, Wands can be broken, and manipulated, and summoned. Spells can miss, and strike the wrong person. Incantations can be misspoken. But knives demand to aim true. If your throw is good, you don't have to worry about anything else. It does all of the work for you.
Tom was right: Rufus was perfect for the role.
It wasn't just him, though. Everything seemed to be going weirdly in their favor. Cromwell Rosier had been hired by The Daily Prophet as a photographer, so he could take the most pleasing shots of her and Tom possible, which Cecily could incorporate into her articles. Abaris Avery, just today, had been hired by the Ministry as a Junior Auror, so he could help take it down from within as he climbed the ranks.
The strangest, perhaps, was Dorian Nott. Every pureblooded family had a seat on the Wizengamot. Until recently, that position had been filled by Dorian's father, as his grandfather was deceased. However, just yesterday, his father had suddenly fallen gravely ill, which Hermione suspected was from food poisoning. As his father was unable to fulfill his duties as the head of the Nott family, Dorian was obligated to take his place.
She was hardly superstitious, but she still rapped her knuckles on a wooden door frame as she passed by. One could never be too careful, even if such habits were a load of rubbish.
Trelawney would probably be proud, she scoffed. She was slowly morphing into the crazy old bat.
"Hermione, just the person I wanted to see."
Hermione blinked, realizing her feet had carried her on autopilot to the gardens. She glanced up. The dark clouds overhead threatened rain, the downdrafts already bringing the autumn chill, and thunder rumbled from somewhere far away. They were probably safe, for now, but they had to either go inside or make this meeting a quick one.
Besides, Tom didn't look worried, so she shouldn't be either.
"I'm concerned about Macnair," she found herself saying.
Tom frowned. "Macnair. Any reason why?"
Hermione bit her lip, thinking over all of their past interactions. "I can't pinpoint it, exactly, but I think he's up to something. There's just this menacing air about him. I can't place what it is."
"Why, Hermione, are you saying you're scared of him?"
"No," she snapped, rather too quickly, because his lips quirked up. "I just think it's worth investigating."
"I'm sure you're only being paranoid, which is natural, considering the history between the two of you. He's probably surly at all of the attention you're getting."
She sighed. "Just look into it, alright?"
"Of course," he said.
She searched for something to change the subject. "Do you have any plans for tonight?"
He gave an elegant shrug. "I was thinking of going down to Knockturn Alley, actually. There's someone I need to talk to."
Hermione brushed the tips of her fingers against his knuckles, and he regarded her, his eyes showing his trust. "You could come with me, if you'd like."
She smiled and shook her head. "I have some things to do here. But stay safe."
He seemed about to say something, but just gave a short nod and walked back inside the house. Hermione watched him go, trying to fight a strange sense of foreboding. She shook her head, trying to clear the worries. It was just Knockturn Alley. And at any rate, no matter what happened, Tom had faced much worse than whatever he'd find down there.
She was being completely ridiculous, and knew it, but the thoughts refused to go away.
The sky had grown much more darkly overcast than before, and as she stood there, the first few droplets of rain began to fall. It started to pour very quickly, and by the time she had made it inside, she was completely soaked. She wrung out her dripping hair in the front hall, grimacing, but was thankfully able to reach the hallway to her rooms without any of the Knights seeing. They always fussed over her, especially the girls, as if she couldn't handle a little water.
However, when she opened the door to her bedroom, she saw Oraia examining one of the vials on the dresser. She put it down quickly when she saw Hermione approach. "Oh, Hermione. I've been looking for you."
"You have?"
"Yes, I missed you." Hermione smiled, and Oraia followed her to the lavatory, where more vials were lying on the counter. "By the way, what are all of these?"
Hermione sighed at the sight of the loathsome bottles. "Haven't you heard of mithridatism?"
Oraia's eyes widened. "You've been poisoning yourself? I mean, it makes sense, but still-"
"I can't take any risks," Hermione said, twisting some strands of her damp hair into braids that intermingled with the rest of her curls. "I need to defend myself against assassins, you know," she added sardonically.
Oraia just sighed. "How much?"
"I think half of a leaf of hemlock, a milligram of aconite, one belladonna berry, and a milligram of ricin."
"Dear Merlin, Hermione! But what are all these others?"
"More that I'm going to incorporate in addition to the others," Hermione said distastefully. "It's not fun, believe me. I still haven't reached my goal yet."
"What's your goal?" Oraia asked, as if she was afraid of the answer.
"Being able to eat my supper without feeling violently ill afterwards."
Oraia grimaced, looking unwell just thinking about it. "But why aren't you using mithridatism to defend against dangerous potions?"
"What do you think those dangerous potions are made out of?" Hermione grinned. She turned to the bottles lined up on the counter. "Besides, that's next on the list. Winston's brewing some up for me." She drew a deep breath and uncorked the bottle of belladonna, staring at the black berry inside. "I'd rather you not see this."
Oraia nodded quickly and left, turning back at the last second, rather uncertain. "Hermione . . . if you need me, you know where to find me."
Hermione nodded, and Oraia closed the door behind her.
After nightfall, Tom quickly Apparated to Knockturn Alley, and his eyes scanned for any dangers lurking in the shadows. This was a crooked place, especially at night, and one could never be too safe, particularly when holding valuable merchandise.
He resisted the urge to touch the pocket where the necklace was hidden, as that was precisely the motion that thieves would be looking for. He kept his hands occupied, one holding his wand and the other straightening his tie and running a hand through his hair, all the while searching for pickpockets and drunkards. He finally opened the door to Borgin and Burke's, and the bell gave a soft chime as he entered, in sharp contrast to the crackling thunder overhead.
Tom's eyes glanced around the small shop, lingering on items of interest. His eyes caught sight of a necklace with blue opals. He stopped to read the warning label, which read: Do not Touch! Cursed. Has claimed the lives of nineteen Muggle owners to date.
He filed it in the back of his mind as he walked up to the front counter, where Caractacus Burke was counting some greenbacks that were just as greasy as his hair.
Tom had met Burke at Slughorn's little Christmas party, and had developed a low opinion of the man rather quickly. He had an oily demeanor, his ingratiating smiles sliding right off of his face once he learned that the person he'd been trying to convince wasn't interested in buying.
This was also the man from whom Tom had bought Slytherin's locket, and as his mother was the last person who'd owned it, it wasn't hard to put two and two together.
Tom looked around in disgust at the filthy shop. He despised stepping inside here. The interior of the shop was just as stained as its reputation, cobwebs lacing the ceilings, grime coating every surface, the windows crusted with Merlin knew what. He would be in and out of here as quickly as possible, and then he would perform an intense cleaning charm on every article of clothing that had touched anything inside.
He walked up to Burke, who glanced up in annoyance, his features falling into a pleased smile when he saw Tom's black overcoat and hat. "Well hello, Mr. Riddle. Fancy seeing you here again. Are you buying or selling?"
"Both," Tom said, and Burke's interest was piqued.
He pulled out the exact copy of Slytherin's locket, and Burke's eyes widened eagerly. "You're selling it already, Mr. Riddle?"
"I wish to trade."
"For what?"
Tom nodded to the opal necklace, and Burke's eyes narrowed. "Well, now, that's a nice item, very nice indeed. I'm not sure that this is worth the price."
"You're quite right," Tom said coldly. "It's worth far more. Did you truly think you could con me into selling an heirloom of Salazar Slytherin himself for less than its true value? I know your tricks, Burke."
Burke's features turned nasty. "Very well, Mr. Riddle. A trade it is."
"That's what I thought."
Tom smiled as Burke presented him with the now-boxed necklace.
"I wouldn't touch this with your bare hands," Burke warned. "It's got quite a few curses on it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Tom said, handing over the fake locket. Burke grasped it eagerly, his face betraying his greed.
"You have a wonderful night, Mr. Riddle."
"Oh, I will," Tom promised. "You can be quite sure of that."
He stepped out of the shop to a torrential downpour. He scowled, conjuring an umbrella, which he held against the rain.
Merlin, he hated autumn.
He was just about to Disapparate back to Malfoy Manor when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see a haggard, middle-aged man with a scraggly beard and patches on his clothes. Holding a gun to Tom's head.
The man was a Muggle?
"I need money," the man muttered. "Give me everything you have in your pockets."
Tom just looked at him in disdain, and the beggar punched him in the jaw. Tom staggered back, feeling a smile form across his mouth as he wiped the blood from his lips.
"Give me everything you've got," the man spat.
"Certainly," Tom said. He handed the box over, and the beggar opened it to see the opal necklace. His eyes widened, and he picked it up, holding it up to the flickering streetlight.
Then his thumb brushed the stone.
First his hand twitched, then his entire arm, and then his body convulsed in spasms. The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he levitated into the air, suspended by invisible threads. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and blood flowed from it, staining his teeth and his chin and his shirt. He dropped back down to the cobblestone street, convulsing and shuddering, and he gave a long, guttural scream before going limp.
Tom pushed the beggar's bloody corpse to the side with his boot, picking up the necklace with the paper wrapping and placing it carefully back in the box. He glanced at the corpse again, his lips curving into a smirk. "Next time I see Burke, I'll tell him to update the warning label."
He turned to leave, but something metal caught the light, and he stopped, picking up the gun the Muggle had dropped. He examined it in the light of the streetlamp, frowning. A pistol. Muggles could only enter Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron, and they had to be accompanied by a witch or wizard.
Who would bring a Muggle beggar with them into Knockturn Alley?
Hermione woke up screaming, and she grasped for her wand, sending an arc of magic that smashed the mirror sitting on her dresser. The noise stunned her from her panic, and she gasped, staring unseeing at the destruction she'd caused.
Would she ever feel safe?
Don't think like that.
She worked on calming her breathing, her heart hammering far too loudly in her terror. Her hands grasped the bedsheets as the scenes from her nightmare played over and over in her mind.
She needed a breath of fresh air.
Hermione pulled away the thick blankets and rose from the bed, but a wave of dizziness hit her and she sank back down onto it, taking deep, deliberate breaths to slow the pounding headache. This was a side-effect of poisoning herself; she hadn't received a full-night's rest since she had started, and the nightmares were getting worse.
She was just about to rise again when the door to her bedroom opened and Tom entered, closing the door behind him. "I heard screaming," he said uncertainly. "Is everything all right?"
She couldn't answer, watching his every movement.
His eyes took in the shattered mirror, the sheen of sweat on her forehead. He gave a half-smile in the dark, and walked over to her, sitting right next to her on the bed. He exhaled and leaned his head against the tall bedpost, and his black hair fell into his eyes. After a moment, he smiled, and it was not a happy smile, but one of exhaustion. "I have them too," he said quietly.
She studied his hands, the way they were clasped together, the knuckles white. "You do?"
"Every night," Tom said bitterly. "I can never seem to stop seeing my father's face. It's only natural he would haunt me even after his death. A lasting legacy with which to leave his beloved son." He closed his eyes. "I hear his screams."
She said nothing, still gazing at his hands, afraid that if she looked at his face, she'd see the vulnerability he was trying so desperately to hide. "I see you," she admitted.
His head lifted, his eyes meeting hers, searching them for something he didn't seem to find. "And?"
She smiled softly. "You're terrifying. Your eyes glow red, your fingers are always stained with blood, but I can never seem to run away."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the ticking of the clock the only sound interrupting the heavy quiet that hung between them. She searched for something to say, anything, but came up empty.
"Is that really how you see me?" he asked finally, his voice and his face unreadable, as if he were both curious about her answer and dreading it at the same time.
She kissed him on the jaw, right on the bruise that she'd have to ask about later, and the bond suddenly burned. "I used to," she said softly. "But not anymore." Her hand touched his, a tentative invitation, and he laced his fingers through hers. She put her head on his shoulder, and he drew back slightly, hesitant, eventually putting his arm around her and pulling her closer to him.
She swallowed, listening to the beating of his heart. "Tell me you won't leave."
"What would be the reason for leaving?" he asked. "We haven't accomplished our goal."
"No, Tom," she said, sitting up. Her eyes met his, which were fixed on her in question. "I need to hear you say it. Tell me."
He held her gaze, his eyes searching hers in the dark, and his chin lifted, his black eyes burning into hers. "I won't leave," and at her doubtful look, he said, "I won't. No matter what happens."
"Even if we fail?"
He took her hand, his thumb tracing her palm. "Even then." The shadow of a smile crossed his face. "But we won't fail."
"How do you know?"
His hand lifted to trace her jaw, his eyes never leaving hers. "Because we have you."
Hermione's eyes widened, and then she smiled softly, the warmth of his words filling her, calming the nervous beating of her heart. She shifted, leaning against him, and this time he didn't pull away.
As he ran his fingers through her hair, his touch comforting the worries in her heart, she fell into a relaxed sleep.
DUMBLEDORE ATTACKED
Wizarding Hero Assaulted in His Home, Attacker Killed in Self-Defense
By Cecily Parkinson
On September 2, 1944, just last night, Albus Dumbledore, 63, was visited by someone whom he thought was an old friend. Little did he know that this man was there to commit murder.
"He pulled out his wand and began to send spells at me," says Dumbledore, completely baffled. "I had no choice but to duel him back. It was, I admit, a rather short duel, and I was able to return to my tea right afterwards, but all of the commotion had caused it to grow cold."
Further research into the assailant's background reveals a certain Arnold Blishwick, 35, a pureblood who had been fired from his former Ministry position for supporting the infamous Gellert Grindelwald in his regime during the Global Wizarding War.
"It was all completely absurd," Dumbledore said later that night in his study. "I had no idea who the man was, or why he was attacking me. I was forced to kill him, which will rest forever on my conscience, but I cannot help but feel that he was angry at me for uprooting something he had believed in, however evil."
Is Minister Spencer-Moon aware of the growing tension between wizardkind? Riots over the alleged pureblood privileges have increased, and yet he continues to do nothing. Now wizards are turning on their own? Where does it end, Minister? When will we finally feel safe inside our homes, instead of fearing attacks from our own kind and afraid to step onto the streets?
Something needs to be done, and if the Minister continues to refuse to lend a hand, we must fulfill the role ourselves.
Roger Selwyn crumpled the newspaper in his fist, glaring first at the still-fresh black ink rubbing onto his hand, then at the high roofs of London. "Cecily Parkinson . . . where are you?"
A/N: I finished this chapter in two weeks! This goes to show how much I can get done when I don't have mountains of homework hanging over my head. I told you I'd deliver!
I'm crazy grateful for all of the follows and favorites I've received and will receive, but I think from now on I'm only going to give shoutouts for reviews, so review, review, review!
Oh yeah, and join the Discord (remove the spaces)! discord .gg/qrcpqjXMhf
~ DarkLadySwan