Chapter 2
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She was running.
Her feet were sliding dangerously on the soil, her mouth taking in the humid air of the night in gulps, her chest heaving in pain and exhaustion. Leaves and branches scratched her face like knives on porcelain skin, but she kept running through the dark forest by inertia.
Green and red lights illuminated the wild setting, flying past her as she tried to dodge each curse aimed at her back, bending on sore knees or ducking behind trees before she could sprint forward again.
She had lost sight of him minutes earlier. Or had it been hours?
All she wanted to do by now was double over her knees and just breath, or... give up. Stop running. Go out, in the clear, and let it all end with one simple word, one quick glance into Death's eyes and-
No. She couldn't. It just wasn't right. She needed to find him. Stop him.
Her mind wasn't working any more, her body was moving by sole instinct. She felt like an animal running from a promised feast, a feast of which she was the main course. Yet again a prey.
She was about to give in the desire to launch herself on the ground and lie there until it was over, whichever way that would be, when blood-curdling screams echoed in the air. Her heart seemed to stop beating and constrict up her throat as the sound pierced her ears. Another wave of panic rushed over her.
She dashed behind a tree and tried her best to still her twitching limbs and ease her breath. Crouching, she tilted her head and listened. Tears ran down her stained cheeks while the screams gradually turned into a distant and weak howling. Then, the aching whimpers abruptly stopped. She choked on air and sobbed, looking through the darkness in the direction of the castle.
After a minutes, or maybe an age, red sparks flew towards her again, missing their goal by inches, and she had to talk herself into resuming the run.
She moved foot after foot the fastest she could until she spotted something moving in front of her, through the leaves. A man. Her vision was fogged, but she could make out a tall frame, a ripped and filthy t-shirt. Black messy hair. She could recognise his hair anywhere.
She sped up and the trees thinned out. She saw him run into a clearing, right into their predator's hungry jaws. Why? Why wasn't he running away?
"No!" she shouted with all her remaining forces- in fear. And panic. Why? Why?
He heard her. He stilled for a brief moment. He twisted around to look back at her, an expression of pure horror covering his face.
"Hermione!" he yelled in alarm. "Don't!"
But she kept running towards him, over the edge of the forest, into the glade.
"Hermione, hide! Run!"
His voice was hoarse but he pleaded for her to get away, again and again, till lights and sparks streamed into the night.
Not many feet away from him, she slowed down, realising what he was doing, why he was shaking his head in silent warning-
"Hermione," he whispered, lifting his chin, fixing his eyes into hers. Into her heart and into her soul. She helplessly held his stare as he looked at her for the last time.
His lips kept on moving in murmurs, relentlessly, a blinding light struck into his back with savage force being the end of his silent mantra. He collapsed to the ground-
She jolted awake in a pool of sweat and crumpled sheets, gasping for air. She rubbed her chest with a trembling hand, violent sobs shaking her whole body into a mess.
For the first time on a Christmas morning, Hermione Granger curled up on her bed, crying in sorrow and despair at the memory of her name dying on the lips of Harry Potter with him.
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Christmas at the orphanage was usually a sombre affair that began with the usual breakfast and morning routines, continued with a lunch that was more substantial than usual, followed by the appearance of presents, mostly disused clothes and toys and books donated to the church. The day ended with prayers and it was then that the children who remembered their parents gave up and cried, because out of the windows there were lights and decorated trees and families walking down the street, returning home with their bags filled with sweets and pocket money.
There, at the orphanage, it was all grey: Santa didn't exist, Baby Jesus didn't have the time to drop by even to give one new present to everyone.
"Merry Christmas, Tom," the Fat Lady winked at him, slipping in and out of portraits to follow him along the corridor. Tom grinned back, stopping in front of an alcove, and the Fat Lady secretly winked at him.
Christmas at Hogwarts was Tom's favourite time of the year, not because of the presents or the quiet, but because it was a time no one and nothing could steal. Not poverty, not the sadness of the orphanage. And at Hogwarts Tom felt at home.
He was about to push back the tapestry and take the secret shortcut, the Fat Lady's eyes still on him, but a deep voice halted him.
"Riddle."
Tom turned around, his back straight and head held high. He nodded at Dumbledore, who was walking out of a classroom.
"Professor," he greeted the older man.
"Merry Christmas, Tom," Dumbledore said cheerily, his eyes sparkling for a moment- the light faded as it'd appeared. "Walk with me."
It wasn't a question and Tom had no choice but to follow the professor down the corridors to the Courtyard. Tom wasn't happy to leave the warmth of the castle, so was marginally relieved when Dumbledore didn't cross the square, opting to walk the perimeter behind the columns.
The sky was as grey as ever, the clouds low and heavy with snow that had yet to fall.
"So, tell me Tom, how is the year proceeding?" Dumbledore finally asked, sitting on a stone bench.
"Fine, sir," Tom answered smoothly, with no intention to offer information he hadn't been asked to give.
"Good," Dumbledore hummed, his gaze trained on two black birds playing on the rim of the well. "Good. And you chose to stay at Hogwarts this year."
They both knew why Tom always stayed back.
"Next year you'll be able to leave home. At last." Home. The orphanage, home. As if.
Leaning against a column, Tom kept silent. Truthfully, Tom had asked himself why Dumbledore hadn't wanted to talk to him sooner this year. The man usually found a myriad of excuses to question his least favourite student. Somehow, Tom had found himself in Dumbledore's office quite often over the years, mostly for awkward conversations and a few odd, animated discussions. Tom hated both. He hated talking to Dumbledore, and most importantly, he couldn't stand Dumbledore.
What was today going to be? Good and evil? Love?
"Tom, love is the most wonderful and terrible force in the whole universe! It's an invincible power!"
Tom pushed himself off the column. The two birds were now picking at a dead insect.
"I think…" Dumbledore interrupted the silence, turning his bespectacled gaze to the sky. "Yes, I think it will snow tonight."
Tom didn't respond.
"He'll stain the virgin snow red… Oh, I see now. He waited for it."
Not unfamiliar with Dumbledore's monologues but taken aback by his cryptic words, Tom looked at him quizzically and the man, sighing, looked back.
"The darkness, Tom," he clarified with a wave of his hand. "The enemy waited for the darkness to make its move. Why do you think that is?"
Tom thought about it, the low murmur of the wind in his ears fading, the cold air scratching his neck forgotten for a moment.
"To invoke fear," Tom finally answered. "To give people a sense of insecurity and instil doubt…?"
"Yes," Dumbledore nodded gravely, "that's what I think too."
"What does he want, sir?" Tom couldn't refrain from asking. He wanted to know, about the war, about the symbol, about him. "The enemy- Grindel-"
"That," Dumbledore interrupted, tilting his head to look at Tom over his spectacles, "I can't say, Tom."
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"And he didn't say anything more?"
Feodor walked next to him, his hands buried in his slack's pockets and a green scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth. He looked at Tom with a quirked eyebrow.
"You know how damn cryptic he can be," Tom exhaled. "Why bother telling me at all, I'm not sure."
His eyes narrowed on the man in question, who was hurling snowballs at Granger and Evelyn in the garden.
Tom and Feodor were walking along the top of the hill, looking down on the snow-covered grass surrounding the gamekeeper's hut, where several teachers and all the students were engaged in a snow battle – except for Tom and Feodor, who limited themselves to watch and defend themselves from Evelyn's poor attempts to get them to play.
Of course Dumbledore had started the game as soon as the first snowflakes had hit the ground in the evening. Now the sky was turning a dark grey, the light disappearing in a mockery of sunset.
The battle went on until the headmaster showed up. Red-faced, the man immediately stalked down the slope to send the students to their dorms to wash up before dinner while the teachers had to stay behind and put up with another of the headmaster's long and monotonous speeches as to why kids couldn't shove snow down each other's throats on school grounds.
"That was fun!" Evelyn reached the top of the path, wheezing, Granger following behind. "I wish Dippet was as laid back as Dumbledore. Really, I love the man."
Feodor made a gagging noise and Tom rolled his eyes. Of course everyone loved saint Dumbledore.
The two Slytherins turned and started for the castle.
"You two missed out, by the way," Evelyn said, tugging gloves off her hands to wiggle her fingers.
"We're not children," Feodor informed her.
"No, you're grumpy old men- Hey!" Evelyn stopped by the entrance, struck by an idea. "Why don't we all go to Hogsmeade tomorrow? We should get out of the castle now that the kids are away." Looking at Feodor with a condescending smile, she added, "You can come too, Nott."
"So kind of you," he responded with an exaggerated simper, but the girl took it for the 'yes' it was with no retorts.
With a yawn, Granger gave her assent as well. She was dragging herself behind her classmate, clearly exhausted after two hours of a mission she'd taken too seriously, consisting of running across the garden and dashing behind trees.
"I'll let Davies know. We won't hear the end of it if we go without him," she said, her voice weary.
As for Tom, he didn't want to go, but one look from Evelyn and he was reminded of the many unfortunate mouthfuls of snow he'd had that night, in particular one that had left a bad taste in his mouth and Feodor restraining himself from rolling over in laughter, and the decision was taken from him. Nonetheless, Tom flashed the girl a saccharine smile that was left open to interpretation.
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Thinking about it, he might have been jealous. Tom had played snowball before. The one from this afternoon had been a cold and messy affair reminiscent of civil wars, with checkpoints and all, and saw angry witches hell bent on revenge.
Tom had been one of those kids, once. Back in London, the children would always come up with boys-against-girls games, in which the boys were supposed to make the girls jump and run after them with a squirming worm trapped between their soiled and scratched fingers, or simply try to take a look up their skirts while tree climbing.
And Tom, he smiled then, at six years old, winning all the hide-and-seek games because he was good at hiding and the best at running fast to save everyone; he'd laugh when he and the boys searched the little garden of the institute for insects, or when they used to jump in and out of abandoned tyres and always ended up with scorched legs because the rubber was hot under the sun.
But as he got older, the more distance he had to put between himself and them. At eight he started preferring to stay inside and study the few picture books they owned rather than enjoy the sunny afternoons with the other children, and then everyone had forgotten that Tom Riddle, now nine years old, had played outside with the others once- carefree, laughing and living.
At ten he was the lonely boy who had taught himself to write and read and had never played one game of tug of war, or Jinx during supper, in his whole life… no one had bothered to ask why.
Yet Tom knew how, he remembered the girls who had suddenly decided to run away from him one day and rat him out to Mrs Cole for having shown them the snakes in the garden, or when, playing, the other boys had pushed him to the ground to stand over him, sneering – because whenever that had happened, an accident had always followed.
"Accidents..." Tom breathed out, stepping into a corridor of the fifth floor.
Hitching his satchel back up his shoulder, he stopped in front of a door on the left wall, a tall statue of Boris the Bewildered on the side. Tom spoke the password, Branchias et tridents, and the statue's moustache twitched, the door opening soundlessly.
The room he walked in was washed with the soft glow cast by the wall sconces and a multitude of colourful prism lights dispersed through the stained glass windows; the air was perfumed, a sweet scent summoning rain and parchment and summers spent on a hill overlooking lush landscape that spread for miles. The mermaids, beautiful unlike the creatures inhabiting the Black Lake, recognised Tom. They started shifting, poised on their rocks, and blew him seductive kisses.
Feeling exhaustion catching up with his limbs, he let his satchel slide down his arm and fall on the floor with a soft thump-
Splash
Tom cursed loudly, startled by a loud noise. "Bloody hell!"
A head emerged from the bubbles dotting the pool. The pool that was filled with steaming water.
"Riddle!" a voice shrieked. There were more splashing sounds and Tom took a few steps forward, not daring to get too close to the edge of the bathtub.
"Who is it?" he asked, frowning at the water swashing towards the other side of the room, the surface shadowed by the bathtub walls, but he had an inkling who it was, especially when she growled, "Get out, Riddle!"
"Were you misplaced, Granger? This is the Prefect's bathroom!" He tried to sound stern but there was no helping the rigid set of his shoulders as he turned around.
She got out of the water, the sound of her wet feet padding across the floor hurried and loud, while he stared at the wall in front of him. He scowled at the tiles. He burned a hole through the thick bricks hidden behind.
"I should take away points for this, Granger," he hissed. "Not only you're out of bed after curfew, but you used the prefects' bathroom- I should give you detention."
Hermione scoffed, "I am a-" but then she stopped, seeming to catch herself.
Tom looked over his shoulder, "You're what, miss Granger?"
She was standing at the edge of the pool wearing a red sweater two sizes too big for her, a green skirt that brushed her knees, and a pair of socks with golden snitches. Glaring at him, she stepped into her shoes and crossed her arms.
"I'm tired."
She kept looking daggers at him, but there was a hint of uncertainty in her gaze. Her hair was plastered to her face, curling at the ends, and a red flush tinged her neck and cheeks.
"I won't take points," Tom said softly, his shoulders sagging.
She nodded. "Goodnight then," and made to walk past him, but he was standing in her way.
Something was wrong. Something...
Her sleeves had been rolled up her forearms several times.
"Excuse me." Granger stepped around him for the door, but instinct took over and he snatched her wrist.
She was so shocked she didn't even fight him off. Tom turned her hand over and lifted it between them. He pushed back her sleeve with short, sharp movements, and pressed his thumb over her skin-
Granger hissed in pain and Tom immediately let go. His eyes widened at both her reaction and what he'd done as she cradled her arm to her chest.
"What is it?" he asked suspiciously, his eyes fixed on that arm, on that patch of uneven skin now hidden from him. He'd caught only a glimpse of it but it'd looked like a series of cuts and ridges.
Granger glared at him, her fingers curling at her sides. "Nothing."
Tom opened his mouth to insist and point out that clearly it was nothing by the look of her pained expression, but she sighed and offered reluctantly, "It's just a scar- sometimes… sometimes it hurts."
Tom knit his brows together. There were different reasons for a scar to hurt, if it was recent, if it hadn't properly healed, if…
"It's more of a mark, really," she murmured.
"Of what."
Granger looked at him right in the eye, for the first time today, for the first time ever. She stared at him with scorching intensity.
Her voice was flat. "Of my Muggle heritage."
Tom stiffened. His eyes narrowed. "Granger… Of course it's a Muggle name," he said out loud, his fists clenching by his sides, "You could have been a half-blood, but your parents are Muggles."
"Riddle is a Muggle name," she commented. She was still openly looking at him, her expression betraying nothing but red-hot anger.
"Touché," he gritted out. "But at least I'm no Mudblood."
Granger didn't wince. Hell, she didn't appear surprised at all. Her lips curled into a contemptuous smile that made his stomach clench and, Salazar damn him, regret his words, even though inside he was simmering; she was staring at him, her expression unreadable, droplets of water hanging off the tips of her curls, and he knew he'd given her exactly the kind of response she expected.
She took a step towards him. "You're like everyone else," she said, tilting her head, her voice deceptively soft. "You use slurs because you can't attack me with anything else without getting into trouble... and out there you act so sickeningly polite. It's pathetic."
Tom was about to reach for his wand, to do what he didn't know, but Granger moved away from him and he restrained himself.
"Think whatever you want of me," she told him with a tone of finality. "I'm not ashamed of what I am. Call me Mudblood or filth, I just don't care."
Tom didn't move as Granger strode out of the room. The door closed behind him.
A mermaid parted the curtain of hair behind which she'd been hiding and playfully tried to capture his attention, but Tom ignored her. The scent of Granger was everywhere. He counted to fifty and left the bathroom.
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Granger avoided him the next morning and things were almost back to normal. Almost.
Their conversation shouldn't have bothered him and yet its memory had been doing things to Tom's stomach, it'd haunted his sleep and made him toss and turn in his bed over and over again until dawn.
He'd spoken on impulse. She was right, he usually acted very polite towards everyone but a select few, but with her…
When pushed, he pushed back.
The sky was overcast, the air somewhat colder. Tom crossed the Entrance Hall, where he found Feodor already waiting by the heavy oak doors, brooding over the feminine giggles that echoed from outside. He was pulling odd faces at the sight of Evelyn and Davies waving their wands to dump snow on each other's head. Granger was standing close by to capture the scene with Evelyn's American camera.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say there are first-years out there," Tom commented, making his presence known. Feodor readily pushed off the door.
"Ten minutes of this," he said darkly, gesticulating in the Ravenclaws' direction before pulling a woolly hat over his red ears. "Let's get this over with."
Deciding not to comment on Feodor's sulkiness, Tom slipped his already icy cold hands into a pair of gloves and walked after the older boy, who'd already stalked ahead without so much as a second glance at the Ravenclaws standing in the yard.
"Idiot," Tom heard Evelyn say, not quietly, after Feodor had failed to respond to her greeting, but she still followed his and Tom's tracks in the thin layer of snow, her two housemates close behind.
Arrived in Hogsmeade twenty minutes later, the group was greeted by the sight of a lovely snow-kissed village ready for the postcard, and Feodor's mood was considerably better. People were merrily chatting in the small square and children ran around the fountain while owls and other birds kept shuttling between the sky and the post office. But what really made Tom's lips twitch was how the echo of vulgar songs drifting out of the pubs mingled with Christmas carols in the air.
The shop windows were glowing with products and decorations, mostly holly wreaths in red and gold, and owners stood by the door, inviting people in to try their new goods with a warm, "Merry Christmas!"
"Care for a butterbeer?" Evelyn asked, stopping before the Three Broomsticks. "I know I want one."
With a side glance, Tom caught Granger ogling at Tomes and Scrolls' window, which was stuffed with classic books and elegant quills, but as Davies exclaimed his assent, she tore her gaze from the shop window, the mention of a small smile at the corners of her lips.
"Sure," she said with a nod, "let's have a drink and get warm. We can go shopping later."
Everyone agreed and entered the pub, only to find it indeed warm but packed.
"There must be a free table..." Evelyn whined, craning her neck to see over the horde of customers. "Oh, come on-"
"Found," Feodor announced after a quick survey of the local, his considerable height a clear advantage. He led them to a small but quiet corner, under the window and close to the table of three drunk old witches; they were half murmuring and half shrieking with laughter over their Dragon Brandy and what looked like strange little wooden boxes and fuming utensils placed all over the surface. One of them winked lasciviously at Tom when he walked past her.
The girls sat down under the window, facing the room, and, with much displeasure, Tom found himself taking a seat right opposite Granger.
The resolution of ignoring her shattered the moment the girl's foot incidentally bumped his while she was pulling off her coat.
"Sorry," she mumbled, her eyes avoiding Tom's. She stilled and then moved again to nervously tap her fingers on the table. Tom had to concede that the events of the previous night had definitely not played in his favour.
"That's Firewhisky."
Inwardly shaking his head, Tom lifted his eyes to Davies.
The boy's attention was on a dark, weedy guy sitting at the counter, knocking back a glass of amber liquid. After contemplating the drink in the stranger's hands for a long moment, Davies grinned, "I want to try it!"
"Sorry mate, you're under my supervision today," Feodor told him seriously, unbuttoning his coat to readjust his Headboy badge and give it a meaningful tug, "the strongest you can have is pumpkin juice."
"Wha-" Davies started to blurt, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the young barmaid.
"What may I get you?" the girl asked in a bored tone, her eyes rolling over the faces of the five of them. Reached Feodor's, she blinked. Her gaze flickered between the flashy green badge and his charming smile.
"We'll have four butterbeers and a pump-" he started replying, but Davies cut him off with a fist banged on the table and an indignant, "Hey!"
Feodor smirked, "Right. I mean five butterbeers, please. It's on me."
The barmaid, unmoving, blinked again at the money waiting in Feodor's hand. Evelyn had to eventually clear her throat for the other to snap back to her senses, grab the money, and stagger away through the smoky air of the pub.
A few quiet seconds passed by-
"Ouch!"
Feodor yelped and a muffled sound immediately followed as his knee hit the bottom of the table, making the ashtrays and napkin holder rattle dangerously.
"What was that for?" he asked in disbelief, squinting at Evelyn through the tears.
Evelyn merely shrugged, examining her nails. "There was an ugly spider on your foot."
"How the hell did you see it-"
Feodor's resentment was punctuated by the arrival of their butterbeers and two plates of chips brought over by the owner of the pub, a tall and large man with a gentle smile so at odd with his coarse rough face.
Of the young barmaid, not a trace, Tom noted; true enough, Evelyn's gaze slid past his shoulders once and she appeared strangely pleased by whatever she saw.
Tom quietly sipped his butterbeer, lifting his eyes from time to time to see Feodor steal glances at Evelyn, confusion and astonishment crossing his face.
"Something's wrong?" Evelyn asked, catching Feodor looking sideways at her for possibly the tenth time in two minutes.
"'Course not," Feodor muttered, returning to his pint.
"Are we going to Zonko's?" Davies asked to no one in particular, tracing a finger around the brim of his already empty mug.
Feodor leaned back on the bench. "As soon as we get out of here, yes. But I want to go to the bookshop first." He paused, his eyes on Granger. The girl had already eaten half their chips. "How come you're so… hungry?"
Amused, he folded his arms on the table and waited for her to clean the shared plate and dab her mouth with a napkin.
She was taking her time to respond, but Tom knew she would never tell them the truth. He'd guessed it that first evening they'd sat at the same table. She'd lunged on the desserts; her eyes had tracked the plates on the table as if they would disappear any moment, which they could... but this was different. This was another kind of anxiety. It was real.
Say it, he wanted to dare her.
Say it.
There was no food. I was starved.
At last, Granger shrugged. "You're paying. I'll eat what I can get."
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The light had vanished behind the white mountains and snow fell in heavy sheets now. Tom was strolling through the bookshelves on the second floor of Tomes and Scrolls, looking for nothing in particular but a diversion from boredom.
He'd left Granger on the first floor half an hour ago, while Feodor, Evelyn and Davies had gone to Zonko's and Honeydukes.
Closing a book about the dangers of Legilimency, Tom walked to the banister and peered down at the almost empty aisles in the Runes section. There it was, a bushy-haired girl leaning against a bookshelf, just under his nose, intent on reading a thick volume covered in ancient symbols.
Tom hadn't really acknowledged her the whole day, not even in the pub. Now that he had the chance to do so without being seen by three busybodies who would surely jump to conclusions if they were to catch him staring at Granger, he took it.
It's not like he was doing anything that strange for a boy of his age, but he couldn't help the feeling that it wasn't right. He knew she despised him but he wasn't sure his beliefs were the only reason. There were other people at Hogwarts who thought worse of her, after all.
As for his beliefs, she'd been right about them, she'd expected nothing else from him. Somehow, she knew him, what he was beneath the pretences and what he pretended to be. Sickeningly polite.
Tom observed Granger for a while, lost in his perverse train of thought, until a deafening sound forced him back to earth.
High-pitched screams rang from outside.
"Run!"
It happened all too fast.
"It's them!"
First Granger was there, letting a book fall to the floor, and an instant later she was dashing out of the bookshop, wand already in hand.
Tom stormed after her without thinking, screams and growls slashing the air from the little square of the village.
What was happening? Who were them, what were they doing-
Tom hadn't realised how many people were in Hogsmeade until he saw them streaming into the shops for shelter, jolting him backwards while he tried to catch a glimpse of a familiar face. But it was too dark and the snow raged and he couldn't see-
"What are you doing, son? Go hide!"
Someone grasped him by the collar, trying to push him back into the bookshop, but Tom roughly removed the callous hand from him, blindly darting forward. Shoving witches and wizards out of his way, he finally stumbled into the clear, a blurred hint of curly hair moving not far from him. An ominous sound whistled close to his ear, effectively stopping him. It collided with a well into red sparks. A curse.
Then another, this time well aimed in Tom's direction.
The seconds seemed to decelerate, the span of time in which he hurriedly pointed his wand ahead and growled, "Protego Horribilis!"
The rebound almost knocked him back on his rear, but he dug in his heels, ready to return the dark curse to its caster- Tom saw him. A hooded man, tall, clothed in black leather, turning away, certain that Tom was out of the game for good.
The man was moving swiftly, like a shadow, shooting curses and promptly shielding himself from-
Granger.
But Tom didn't have the time to assist Granger in her duel with the hooded man for others, too many, were running throughout the village, men and women, cursing those within reach-
"Avada Kedavra."
And killing. Cursing and killing.
No No No
"Avada-"
"Reducto!"
Tom didn't pause to see the well explode and a brick crash the stranger's head into a gush of blood.
He ran, Stunning as many he could get on his path.
A flash of light flew over Tom's head, smashing the window of a shop. He swung around to face the caster; he didn't give him the time to raise his blasted wand. He brought the man down without so much as a thought, red sparks dazzling towards his chest.
The man's hood fell with him, exposing a blond head and a crooked nose.
"Tom, behind you!"
Tom spun around, ready, green light flashing before his eyes, but a well placed body-bind curse preceded him, pushing back another man onto the snow.
With a broken sigh, Tom looked back at Evelyn, standing with her wand clutched in her white-knuckled hand, thin bloody gashes torn open on her cheeks and dark blood soaking through the sleeves of her sweater. It wasn't hers.
"Don't thank me," she said, marching towards him, Feodor and Davies following closely behind. "I saw you cursing the hell out of these cowards. Brilliant. But who the feck do these guys think they are! Attacking Hogsmeade on Boxing Day-"
But Evelyn didn't finish her rant. A gasp left her throat and she paled.
Tom looked around and sucked in a breath. His stomach lurched and cold sweat broke out on his skin. The bodies were scattered on the snow. Men and women… and children. Unmoving.
Evelyn covered her mouth with a quivering hand. "Why?"
Why?
All around them was chaos.
Two masked soldiers emerged from the crowd and stopped upon noticing the four students; wands were instantly pointed in their direction and Tom had mere seconds to throw a shield.
"Go!" he pushed Evelyn into a side alley, Feodor and Zaiden following.
They ran down a labyrinth of alleys behind the shops, deviating when looming shadows intercepted them, until they finally found a fairly concealed spot behind a low wall.
Davies threw himself to the ground, catching his breath.
"Listen," Feodor panted, pulling off his hat and throwing it away from him. "There's- a secret passage- in Honeydukes' cellar-"
"Nott, don't be stupid," Evelyn hissed, but Feodor grasped her shoulders, his fingers digging into her arms.
"I'm not asking you, Evelyn," he said harshly, his voice brokering no argument. "You and Zaiden have to get back to the castle.
"They can't, Feodor," Tom said, craning his neck to peer over the wall. He could see colourful jets in the air. They all could hear the screams.
"Come on." Tom, still crouching, quietly walked along the alley, the entrance giving way directly on the square. The soldiers were still carrying out their mission. They demolished the shops. Few villagers were engaged in duels.
"They're destroying everything," Davies whispered, trembling. "What do we do?"
Tom looked down at him before turning around, his wand at the ready. He studied the square, and as his eyes inspected the dirty ground and the shattered well, he realised he had no idea where Granger was.
"Don't worry, Zaiden," Tom said in a low voice, his eyes searching through the darkness of the evening. Granger was nowhere to be seen and so was the first hooded man she'd been duelling with. "Stay close to me so I can Shield you. If we tell you to run-"
"I run," the boy finished. "I won't play the hero."
"Exactly. Heroes are for Gryffindors," and Granger, apparently, "but we know better."
It was dark. The usual lights of the shops were out.
The sound of their laboured breathing was loud in their ears, but if Tom listened hard, he could hear the tense whispers of the villagers hiding over the noise of the soldiers and the explosions.
Crisp snow was dancing in the air-
Surreal. This was surreal. Blood tainted the candid ground, taunting, the fresh evidence of the depravity they were witnessing. Bodies lay all around, motionless and still warm, eyes open onto the shock that had crushed their lives with two single words. So surreal.
"I'm sorry." It was Feodor who broke their silence. "I'm sorry I don't know how to get us out of this. I don't know how to ask for help. I heard Dumbledore can send messages with his Patronus, but I don't think I can-"
"Shut up." Evelyn spared Feodor a look of warning, even with her hands and legs shaking. "The Aurors are coming, Nott. Someone will have alerted them." After a moment of hesitation, she asked, "How many do you think there are?"
"Many," Feodor replied tersely. "Twenty or more."
"Should we-"
"Kill them?" It took him a moment to answer. "No… No. No Unforgivables."
A couple of heartbeats of silence passed before Evelyn spoke again.
"Nott?" she called, her voice lowered to a sough of fear.
"Hmm."
"I'm sorry I stepped on your foot earlier."
Tom noticed Feodor's bitter smile.
"You're forgiven, Evelyn," he said softly. "And I'm sorry too, for, you know..."
At this, Evelyn managed a glare and her voice regained its usual haughty quality, "I'll hear your full apology for that one later, Nott."
It didn't matter that they were outside, in the complete and most evident open, inhaling humidity. The air started standing heavy anyway.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada-"
"Mudblood."
Tom's stomach clenched. These were Grindelwald's soldiers. He didn't know what these people did to muggleborns if they somehow recognised them. He didn't know anything about Grindelwald.
"Feodor," Tom called the older boy, his eyes not leaving the sight of the square, "engage them. Keep them in the centre, mind the windows. Evelyn, you-"
"She stays here." Feodor bared his teeth, but the girl ignored him.
She nodded at Tom, "I'll do the same."
"Zaiden, you stay behind me," Tom continued hurriedly. "I take you to Zonko's, you cast a Disillusionment Charm on yourself and run to another safe spot. Dissimulo's the incantation. You Stun them from there. Know how to do it?"
Tom heard the younger boy swallow, but his voice was resolute. "Yes."
He felt for Zaiden's wrist and seized it, cold and convulsing.
"On three. One-" Tom watched the moving shadows in front of him, "two," and his eyes searched for unruly hair.
"Three."
They ran back into the open. Tom Shielded Zaiden and himself and dragged him to the shop, crossing the little square with few long strides. A dozen pairs of scared eyes fixed on him through the darkness while he pushed the boy past the cracked door.
"Vere ve goin', kid?"
The voice of the man was nauseating, his thick accent foreign.
Tom whirled around just in time to Stun one, two men within the blink of an eye. And a third went down a breath later.
He spared a glance for Zaiden but didn't see him. "Good job," he shouted anyway.
Running to the core of the battle, he assessed the situation: the village was wrecked, two men were engaged in duels with both Evelyn and Feodor, and two other soldiers had their wands trained on a single man whom Tom recognised as the owner of the Three Broomsticks; five were making the old buildings explode either for sport or to uncover hidden villagers, and three were stalking off towards the perimeter of the village-
Oh, no, you don't.
They were not getting to Disapparate yet, Tom thought, clenching his jaw.
What do I do? Where's Dippet? Where's Dumbledore? Where the hell-
"Hey, you."
Incredulity rooted Tom to the spot, fear squeezing his stomach in a tight grip.
A child.
A boy of three or maybe four stood in the middle of a pile of corpses. He looked around, disoriented at first, a blue bump forming on his forehead. Then, his gaze stopped on a shop, where a figure lay before the entrance, close, so close to the door; her arms and legs were spread on the snow like a stiff, pale doll.
A question, that's what Tom read on the boy's face.
Tom sprinted forward the moment the boy ran right in front of the soldiers, past them, oblivious of the threat gleaming in three sets of eyes. "Mama!"
Tom could only see their backs, a moving blur of black leather, as he dashed ahead faster and faster, but the arm of a soldier was already raising, the wand Tom couldn't see at all clearly pointed, and the child froze like a deer in the headlights-
"Crucio."
.
.
He was fast, too fast. Hermione was tired.
Sweat beaded her forehead and her hair clung uncomfortably to the nape of her neck, but uncomfortable wasn't something she could acknowledge at the moment. All she could do was focus and move: defend, attack, defend.
Her opponent, though... he was moving fluidly just like when they'd started, at least thirty minutes before. It felt like hours. His coolness told her he thought the game had just begun.
She'd understood that this stranger was different from the others, whoever they were, right away, the moment she'd seen him curse an old woman without any apparent motion of his wand. He was stronger than the others, more ruthless if possible, and he was aiming to kill. No chaos, no explosions, no foreplay. Just death.
All around them was chaos and still they duelled in the middle of it, her back to the shops, then to the well, her feet stumbling into bodies-
The man focused on her, uncaring of what was going on around them. One on one.
Three on one on his part was more likely.
His arsenal counted countless spells, so dark the air was impregnated with their scent, their oppressive aura. Hermione was exhausted, but not one of them had touched her. Yet.
Her movements were getting slower, her reactions lagging.
A couple of minutes- the time left before she would break and cave.
Weak, I'm so weak, I can't-
"Argh!"
Hermione grunted in pain, her Shield broken by a powerful curse that gashed her leg. It stung, but there was no time to consider the wound. A jet of curses shook her into action again.
She cried spell after spell in her head, adamant she wouldn't voice them despite the physical need to scream. That mistake would cost her life, she knew.
No. No. I'm not weak. I'll get through this.
For a split second, Hermione saw the man smirk beneath his hood, but an instant later the curses came back stronger and more lethal than before.
"You," he snarled with another slash of his wand, ropes of flames starting into a tornado of red lights, "won't stand for longer, girl."
Hermione blocked the ropes with an effort and she had to dive behind a low wall, crouching, a wave of electric blue lights immediately following the former curse. She lifted her arms to cover her head as the spell crashed into the wall, sending dust of bricks all around her.
No time to think, Hermione stood, her eyes narrowed to slits to regard the man before her with pure hatred, as if unaware that moments ago that dust could have been her head.
You won't either.
He attacked her with dark spells that she deflected with difficulty.
She was losing…
She couldn't lose.
Adrenaline kicked in. She shot three spells at him.
They found their mark.
The man howled, a chilling sound forcefully pulled out of his throat, and Hermione's eyes widened. Blood had sprayed the snow, his blood.
"Hey!"
A spell buzzed near her ear and she wheeled around in time to block another.
She tuned in the cries. The other soldiers. Explosions.
"They're here!"
Sounds of apparition greeted her ears and she had never heard something more beautiful than those cracks.
Crack
"Aurors!"
Crack
Hermione wiped sweat from her forehead and looked back at the man she'd been duelling with.
He was still standing there, an angry glower distorting what she could see of his face, and to his chest he cradled his bloodied arm- Hermione felt bile rise in her throat.
Where his hand had been, now was blood gushing from his wrist.
Time seemed to slow down. He started walking backwards in a straight line, his gaze on her, uncaring of the people running between them, the explosions going off.
He Disapparated in a swirl of shadows and smoke.
.
.
There was a familiar amount of sadistic joy taken from the soldier's pain, dancing in Tom's veins, tickling on his fingertips. He wanted to taste it again.
But he didn't. Instead, he killed the hooded man who'd raised the wand first and Stunned the other two.
His heart was pounding madly but he fought the urge to vomit for the child's sake, the boy who was now looking at him with big, empty eyes.
Tom's knees buckled and he gave in. He fell to the ground, tired, exhausted, scared. He was scared of the urge to inflict pain again for the taste of a single Crucio had never been so bitter and satisfying in his whole life.
He hated how he'd loved it, how his soul was roaring in pain and loathing within himself. He could feel it beneath his skin, telling him to go on. Go on.
He wanted to take his head between his cold hands and scream until the damn feeling crept out of him. But he stayed still, knees deep in the snow, head dangling on his chest.
Soft footsteps neared him. He couldn't look up.
He felt the boy tugging on his arm with his small, chubby hand.
"Mum's sleeping." It was a statement, but there it was, the hint of a question.
Chest deflating, at last Tom lifted his head and took in the boy's tear-stained cheeks, his terrified face.
"Yes. She's sleeping."