Chapter 3
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How did they arrive? Where were you when it happened?
Who were they?
Who. Were. They?
"Mr Riddle, what happened when the Aurors arrived?"
"The soldiers Disapparated."
"And you didn't see anyone's face?"
"No."
"Did you talk to anyone? Did they say something?"
"Only slurs and spells."
"You all duelled with these people and no one said anything?"
"That's correct."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"What about a face?"
"This is the second time you ask. Sir."
"This is not an interrogation, Mr Riddle."
"It is," Feodor interjected wearily, the line between his brows deepening. "You've interrogated us in separate sessions and now you have all of us here. We've answered to you, the professors, and the Minister himself… That makes something like… fifteen stories, doesn't it, sir?"
"I'm aware-"
"We're tired."
"Every little detail is fundamental-"
"We told you everything we know."
The Auror, a middle-aged man with grizzled hair and bad scars stretched across his face, didn't seem satisfied in the least but accepted defeat. He closed his notebook and pocketed a muggle pen in the inside of his coat.
"Alright," he conceded. "Is there something you want to add? Something you forgot to mention-"
Feodor's tone was firm, "No."
Tom was staring at his hands now, not a scratch on his knuckles. The ointment the matron had applied on his hands and arms had healed the few wounds in a matter of minutes, but he still felt the sting, the scars forming and searing beneath his skin. He'd kept his head downcast for the better part of the interrogation, not sparing a glance at the four people sitting beside him, and lifted it only to answer the Auror's questions. He could feel the scrutiny of the teachers on the back of his head, as if they were waiting for him to do something out of character. How was Tom Riddle going to react under pressure, after what had happened? Surely he would break down. Surely he would get up, tackle the Auror and pummel his face. Surely, he would do something, right?
The hot air of the study pressed against him from everywhere. He curled his hands into fists.
"I guess this is all..."
Tom lifted his head. Professor Flitwick was glaring at the man still perched on the headmaster's desk and peering into Granger's face suspiciously. The headmaster and Professor Noel were speaking softly to each other. Dumbledore was noticeably absent.
"Just one more thing," the Auror said when the students shifted in their chairs to get up, and even as Flitwick's eyes flashed dangerously, he went on, "If you remember something, anything, contact me."
The man produced a greeting card and held it out to Granger, bidding her to take it. His forest green eyes didn't leave hers when she caught the piece of paper between two fingers. "Name's Wolfe Savage. Any detail will help us get to him."
At least no one was pretending that what was happening wasn't his doing, Tom thought. His fists tightened. He was growing restless, the noise in his ears increasing. He needed out of here.
"Thank you, everyone." Savage pushed himself off the desk. "You may go now."
Tom shot to his feet and strode out of the door, past Dippet and Flitwick. They didn't utter a word either, their lips set in two matching grave lines.
He descended the stairs in a daze, his feet leading him past the gargoyle and the moving stairs, deep into the castle. The whole place had fallen into a mourning silence, but the absence of sound only made the ringing that had accompanied him from the village get louder and louder, until it was roaring in his head.
"Crucio."
Tom stopped in the middle of the corridor and slumped heavily against a wall. The noise was intolerable now.
"She's sleeping."
He wasn't a stranger to pain or death. But this was different.
He saw the child in front of him, lost, looking for his mother, looking for a thread of certainty. How long till the child realised it was gone?
Gone, like Tom's conscience.
Gone like his father's family.
Gone like his mother, for whom he had never cried.
Snow was raging again. It fell heavy, unrelenting, but at last the noise in Tom's ears was drowned out by the rising wind; its howling was carried through the trees and blew against the outer walls of the castle, making the windows rattle faintly.
All of this coldness, yet inside he only felt burning pain.
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The next morning, the first ten pages of the Daily Prophet were filled with articles on Hogsmeade's attack. Grindelwald's black and white photograph was featured on the front page: a blond, curly haired man staring straight into the camera, a relaxed expression on his sculpted face. An expression not so different from the one Tom wore most of the time, perfectly crafted and unauthentic, betrayed only by the tense lines framing his lips and the impenetrable light in his eyes.
Tom looked away, his grip on the coffee mug tightening, the hot ceramic scalding his palm.
He always looked away and with each edition of the newspaper the days dragged on, weighed down by tension. The world outside was still and waiting when not interrupted by unforgiving blizzards and violent winds.
Every morning, the Daily Prophet would introduce disturbing news. It was clear that the Ministry was finally admitting war had reached their country.
War.
War's wings had spread and reached their sequestered castle.
The invisible but sensible, tremendous clutch of darkness was accompanied by the scared silence of the teachers and the terrified whispers of the students at the news of mass murders happening daily on the continent, 'incidents' reaching British coasts every week. Most of the murders incidents involved Muggles, with a few exception, the greatest being Hogsmeade.
The five students who'd stayed behind in the village to fight the soldiers were awarded an Order of Merlin, Second Class, and special mentions in the Prophet for days. The edition two days after the attack featured a photo of the Minister standing behind Tom, Feodor and Evelyn on the front page.
No one was smiling.
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The storms receded on the last day of the year.
Timid light speared through the clouds in the afternoon and Feodor decided they should dare the blistering cold and venture outside.
Bundled up warm in scarves and long coats, the two strolled along the lake shore in pinched silence. The wind was merciless but it was better than staying inside the castle, where they'd either play games of chess that never ended in violence because Tom always won in less than ten moves, or spend the hours reading.
After a long time, they walked back and sat on a stone bench facing the frozen lake.
"Happy birthday." Feodor withdrew a rectangular thin box wrapped in green and silver paper from inside his coat. He laid it down on the bench but Tom didn't bother opening the gift, already knowing what it was.
"Thanks," he said, his eyes trained on the white surface of the lake. It was so white it seemed to mirror the sky, making a very desolate picture.
"It won't always be this bad," Feodor tried to console him. He knew this wasn't Tom's favourite day of the year. "Try not to look so cranky at dinner, though, will you? Evelyn insisted we have a feast."
Tom didn't respond, his gaze now intent on a pair of crows picking at something at the foot of a crooked tree, their feet buried in the snow.
"He'll stain the virgin snow red… Oh, I see now. He waited for it."
Dumbledore's obscure words rang in his ears.
"Why won't she forgive you?" Tom asked at last, his voice coming out hoarse after hours of disuse.
With a groan, Feodor stood and wandlessly Accioed a flat stone to throw it across the water. It didn't bounce once.
"Because," Feodor said at length, "I did something despicable."
The silence stretched. "Tell me you didn't."
Feodor flinched, and when he turned around to face him, real despair clouded his blue eyes. "Two summers ago."
Tom and Feodor hadn't been friends back then, not the way they were now. So he waited.
"I was born in a fucked up family. I'm their only son, so they planned everything. I hate it, but I can't- I can't drag her into the hellhole that is my life."
"She doesn't know."
"Of course she doesn't." Feodor raked his fingers through his hair and his brow creased. "How on earth do you tell someone you're engaged to a toddler? If she were to hate me more than she does now, she'd just fucking kill me."
"So you hurt her."
"She thinks I used her."
Tom had already guessed what else Evelyn would never know. It was difficult not to when Feodor's attention rarely strayed from her these days- from her face, her expressions, her voice.
"I guess we can't always get what we want," Feodor rasped.
Tom didn't agree.
When you want something, you take it.
He didn't tell him, though. He didn't say anything for the rest of the afternoon.
.
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Tom was surprised to see all his favourite dishes appear on the table with a soft pop at dinner. Cottage pie, baked potatoes, warm loaves of home-baked bread… only he wasn't hungry, his appetite gone days ago. His stomach lurched when he picked up the fork, but he forced himself to take a bite of everything under Evelyn's watchful eye, more for Feodor's sake than hers.
The hall was quiet but for the whispers of the few teachers sitting at the High Table. The Headmaster and Dumbledore's seats were empty.
As the first and second courses vanished, a cake took their place. Tom had expected this but he was still taken aback by the appearance of it. It was a small round torte layered with jam, and the top and sides were coated in melted dark chocolate.
He arched an eyebrow when Evelyn pulled a candle from her pocket and lit it up with her wand. He failed to move and she looked at him expectantly.
Go on. Make a wish. Give us something to feel happy about.
Inwardly rolling his eyes, he leaned forward and quickly blew out the candle.
Feodor patted him on the back and everyone was served a piece of the cake, which had a subtle coffee aftertaste. It was so delicious that Granger covered a moan by clearing her throat. Unlike with her other meals, tonight it seemed like she was savouring her dessert rather than inhaling it.
Ten minutes later, the plate disappeared with only a few crumbs on it and Professor Flitwick and Professor Noel walked up to their table.
"How are you doing, children?" Flitwick asked softly, placing a hand on Evelyn's shoulder.
The girl reassured him they were doing better, speaking for everyone, and the small man nodded in understanding. He lingered to tell them all about the lessons he was preparing, filling in the silence, distracting them for only a few minutes, before parting with a comforting smile.
"He really cares about his House," Noel commented, sitting on the bench beside Granger.
"He knows we miss Zaiden," Evelyn smiled weakly.
Professor Noel pushed his blond bangs out of his eyes to search the faces of the students sitting around him. "That's right, Mr Davies went back home?"
Evelyn nodded stiffly.
Three days ago, when the Davies had come to take their son back home, Evelyn had started a shouting match to convince Zaiden's father to let his son stay.
"There's no place safer than Hogwarts!"
Dippet and the other teachers had stood aside, monitoring the situation, while Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had kept grumbling furious words like 'rude fool', 'froward worm' and 'bull's-pizzle', outraged that not one Gryffindor would step in and 'shove a ruff down the coward's throat'. Indeed no one had intervened, not even Professor Flitwick, the Head of Zaiden's house.
It wasn't out of cowardice, nor fear or respect for the bellowing man, that they had merely watched on the scene. No, they had turned a blind eye on Evelyn's behaviour because they all agreed with her. Hogwarts was the safest place Zaiden could be.
In the end, Feodor had had to physically restrain Evelyn from raising her wand as Zaiden's father, his lips curled back into a snarl, had grabbed his son's arm and dragged him out of the Entrance Hall.
"He'll come back," Granger said, squeezing Evelyn's hand.
Granger hadn't been there that day, though.
Tom inconspicuously eyed her. She appeared exhausted. Her eyes were red and puffy and her riotous curls were gathered in a ponytail, but they still managed to fall about her shoulders, the tips touching the top of her green jumper. The garment caught his attention: it was a baggy, old thing of wool, clearly worn, but there were no frayed edges or holes in the fabric; it had a big golden H sewn in the centre, framed by a carefully designed fire-breathing dragon, its yellow and orange flames curling and licking around the base of the letter.
Granger's fingers strayed to the dragon's tail, her nails grazing it, one, two, three times, the same way he did with the corner of a page, unconsciously, seeking-
The H didn't stand for her own name. No, the jumper was shapeless and three sizes too big for her, the sleeves rolled at her wrists.
Granger's fingers abruptly left the comfort of the dragon as if scorched and Tom's eyes lifted to her face- only to find her looking back at him.
His jaw ticked. She crossed her arms on the table.
"How are things in the village, sir?" Granger asked, her attention turning to the Runes teacher.
Noel sighed heavily. "We're trying to repair what we can, but it's no easy task. Not impossible, though," he said quickly, noticing the girl's eyes widening. "We just need time, Hermione. Time to heal."
When Noel too had left, Evelyn turned to her friend with a raised eyebrow. "I didn't know you two were on friendly terms."
Granger shrugged, taking a sip of water. "I wouldn't say we are- but I guess he's concerned, with me adjusting to Hogwarts and all." She paused before adding, "I had a teacher like him back home. He looks a bit like him too."
This was the most Tom had heard about her life before Hogwarts; by the look of Evelyn, who leaned forward, her lips parted in astonishment, it was for her too.
"What did he teach?" she asked curiously.
"Defence," Granger said, her focus on the napkin she was folding and unfolding in her lap. "We became friends over the years. He was like a mentor to us."
Us.
Granger blinked. She hadn't meant to say this much. Regret was plain on her face for a moment, until she forced a smile that Tom wanted to rip off her lips. She'd accused him of hiding behind a sickeningly polite mask.
"So..." Evelyn started, a smirk tugging at her lips. "What's this teacher like?"
Feodor rolled his eyes, but Granger cracked a smile. "Well, let's just say I had a major crush on him when I was thirteen."
"Of course you did," Evelyn agreed, nodding her head vigorously. "Noel's quite dishy too."
Feodor scoffed.
Tom remained silent as the other three chatted about the professors, the assignments and upcoming exams. The air around them was lighter, the memories of that night exorcised for the next hour, but their voices would waver at times, their eyes glancing up, waiting for a glimpse of the owl post.
Tonight it never came.
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Hermione's chest hurt.
Breathing was a struggle. Every lungful of air dragged out of her body burn ed her throat.
Her vision swam as she ran, stumbling over the roots and twigs with unsteady legs. The soil was slippery, the air humid and impregnated with something- a stench stinging her nostrils, a metallic taste on her tongue-
She fell.
Panic and terror blinded her.
Scrambling for purchase, she thrust her hands in front of her and her fingers were plunged into something dense and hot-
Black blood oozed from the ground, blood dripping from the treetops, falling down on her, falling into her eyes-
Hermione woke up to a scream, violently shaking in her bed. She gasped for air, scrunching her eyes shut.
Not real Not real Not -
She was soaked in sweat, the blankets tangled around her, suffocating her movements.
It's not real. Just a dream.
She squeezed her closed eyes, trying to erase her nightmare with the blackness behind her eyelids.
Clutching her chest, she took a deep breath and waited a few moments, counting in her head, before risking her eyes open. All was still.
The room was dark and quiet. Evelyn lay in her bed, the blue duvet pulled high under her chin; she was in a deep slumber aided by the potion she'd been taking for the past week. Hermione had adamantly refused the vial the matron had offered her too, wary of the effects she's already felt the first week she'd come back to Hogwarts in November.
Still trembling, Hermione crept out of bed to sit by the window. She leaned into it, uncaring of the cold glass pressing against her arm, and watched as the occasional firework lit the sky, shot in some distant village – but not in Hogsmeade.
She couldn't see it from Ravenclaw Tower, but she knew there had been no celebrations there. No fireworks, no bonfires. No confetti and sparklers.
Hermione shuddered and hugged herself, her fingers digging into her arms as she tried to block the memories from surfacing. She wasn't going to remember the attack, what she had done-
From one battle to the other, was this what her life was to be?
When Hermione looked back at her bed, she knew there would be no peaceful sleep tonight. She didn't want to go under and see it all again, the present, the past, the darkness.
With a deep sigh, she got up. Padding soundlessly on the cold floor, she grabbed her cloak and shoes and picked up her wand, tucking it into its holster under her sleeve.
The nearly curdling air hit Hermione's face and the skin that the cloak didn't cover when she left the commons. Trembling, she quickly cast a Warming Charm about her, but, two steps down the spiralling staircase, she noticed the portraits snoring loudly in their frames and cast an Invisibility Charm as well.
The corridors were empty and the light of a quarter of candid moon streamed through the high windows, revealing the deep shadows reigning in the castle.
Walking leisurely, Hermione let her thoughts take her to Harry and his legendary nocturnal strolls. Thinking of her best friend sneaking about with the Invisibility Cloak, right under the nose of Filch and the ghosts patrolling the corridors, gave her a sharp pang of nostalgia. Her lips quivered at the memory of Ron, Harry and her younger self slipping out of the castle to visit Hagrid after curfew, only to find the egg of a Norwegian Ridgeback in a cauldron.
Five minutes later, Hermione came to a halt. She was in front of the painting of Hipparchus.
Why not, she thought, gently pushing the frame to the side to slide into the small passage. She felt oddly light while climbing the stairs to the top of the tower, drowsiness ebbing away with every step.
She was panting by the time she reached the landing. Hugging her cloak closer against the chill, she walked into the Astronomy Tower for the first time this year, but the view was still familiar and the same: archways looked out on the landscape, a breathtaking and overhanging distance between her current position and the ground, and telescopes and floating golden globes, not dissimilar to those in Dumbledore's office, filled the space, winking at her when the light of the moon caught onto their surfaces.
Hermione entered the circular area, ready to lift the Invisibility Charm, but a sound abruptly stopped her. Barely containing a squeal of alarm, the girl froze at the sight of a man standing on the parapet, his back to her, the rest of his body half hidden behind a column.
Cursing in her head, Hermione started to tiptoe away-
"Stay."
She found herself paralysed with fear. Damn, I should have used Muffliato.
Tom Riddle turned around.
"I know you're here, Granger," he said quietly, but loud enough for her to hear. She wasn't ready for this. "Or are you not?"
Against her better judgement, Hermione paused, stunned by the sound of his voice. It wasn't tight as usual, it was… different. It was deep and relaxed, like the black velvet sky just before sunrise.
She knew she had put off facing him for too long, but the absence of a thorough plan to back her up was very much felt at the moment.
Drawing in a deep breath, Hermione lifted the Invisibility Charm.
"Hey," she said lamely, leaving her hideout from behind the telescope.
Riddle graced her with a knowing look and turned back to stare at the starless night, scouting a bit on the left in silent invitation. The last time she had spent time alone with him, she had ended up crying in her bed for hours- in spite of what she had told him.
Hermione steeled herself and walked to his side to stubbornly fix her gaze on the moon, which seemed to glow a bit brighter, as if laughing at her bad luck.
"I wanted to apology for the last conversation we had, Granger," Riddle started, somehow knowing what was going through her head.
"Dropped the 'miss', have we?" she asked instead, ignoring his attempt at reconciliation. They both knew that the apology wasn't sincere.
Riddle quirked an eyebrow, pushing off the railing to stand right beside her, his chest inches from her shoulder. She still pretended to study the moon as the vibrations of his velvet voice reverberated through her.
"You've been calling me Riddle since the first day we met," he observed, "so I think it's time to accept that you want to be on a last-name basis."
Hermione didn't speak. The idea of calling him anything other than Riddle was...
"Or maybe you like it when I call you 'Miss Granger'," Riddle considered, folding his arms over his chest. "The formality of an addressing title gives you a sense of detachment, if not elevation over the others."
Hermione scoffed. "Only someone who comes up with such ideas might have strange and self-centred ways to feel they're above others. A title in this day and age means nothing. Except maybe for the Queen."
The boy chuckled grimly, peering down at her in a way that made her feel exposed. She shivered, her breath caught in her lungs, and she let it loose only when he turned away. For a moment she was struck by his handsome features- not that she hadn't noticed before. She'd seen his photos over the years, seen the echo of him when Harry had shared his memories of their confrontation in the Chamber of Secrets.
But now, bathed in moonlight, he was real. She studied Riddle's sharp cheekbones and jaw, the aristocratic nose he never wrinkled like the other boys, and his thin lips, the lower currently stuck between his teeth. She took in his raven hair, curled attractively on his forehead; it was a little mussed, not parted on the side as usual. He had probably clawed his fingers through it countless times this evening.
To sacrifice such perfection to gain power, she thought- that's what a madman had done. And in front of her, he was only a boy.
"A knut for your thoughts?" Riddle asked, eyes again distant on the landscape extending around the castle.
You don't want to know.
"How did you know it was me?" Hermione questioned, leaning over the railing.
"You have a peculiar scent."
What is he, a dog?
"I mean your perfume, Granger," he said, sparing her an offended glare. "You smell like the Prefect's bathroom. Which you're still using, I presume."
Hermione dodged the accusation, "What happened in Hogsmeade?"
It was as if he'd been expecting the sinister change of subject. He didn't move, didn't turn around and walk away like she'd have done if he had asked her, and she wondered, a small and distant part of her even hoped, if he was here for the same reason she was.
Tom exhaled and hung his head, bracing his hands on the railing. A ring on his left hand glinted in the semi darkness of the tower and Hermione swallowed at the sight. "You already know, Granger. You heard what I said to the Aurors."
"What really happened, Riddle."
His head still lowered, he glanced at her. "I was with the others. We engaged them, but mostly we defended ourselves. What about you?"
"Just the one duel," Hermione replied honestly. "I'm not sure how I'm alive."
"Perhaps you're good at duelling."
Hermione agreed without thinking about it, "I learned from the best."
Riddle lifted his head. A gentle breeze stroked his hair, making his curls fall over his eyes. He swiftly pushed them back and moonlight caught the gold of his ring with the motion. Hermione avoided looking directly at it, favouring the profile of his face, the long eyelashes brushing the top of his cheek-
"Did you hurt him?" He asked it suddenly, his voice betraying no emotion.
Her lips parted before she could think better of it. "I took his casting hand."
Riddle didn't wince. "What spell?"
"I didn't use dark spells." Lie.
"I did."
Hermione felt like missing a step at the startling confession and her hand flew up to grip the railing. She wanted to ask him why, what had happened, but his head was tilted away from her. She let it go.
The mood had shifted and now space fractured between them, the gap widening with each passing second. The conversation was over.
Hermione hesitated, biting her bottom lip, before giving her head a small shake and crossing the circular room for the door.
Halfway, realisation hit her and she faltered to a stop.
Slowly, she turned around. He was once again leaning over the parapet, his posture relaxed.
"Happy birthday, Tom."
Tom looked at her over his shoulder. This time the surprise flashing in his eyes was unmistakable, but he quickly masked it.
She hastily added, "I know the others got you gifts, but I-"
"We're not friends, Granger," he interrupted her. His voice was still soft.
Hermione felt sorrow threatening to choke her and not because of his words.
Do you come up here every year? Do you spend the night? Are you thinking about her-
"Right," she murmured, turning away from him.
She was in the doorway, her hand on the door knob, when he spoke again. "But thank you."
With a nod he couldn't see, Hermione walked out of the door and an owl cried in the lonely night.
.
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Hermione had to wait another week for Dumbledore to come back. No one knew where the professor had been, not even Violet Tillyman, the resident gossipmonger.
A new term had started and the castle bustled with activity again, the noise of Quidditch practices and the scenes of fifth and seventh years having mental breakdowns in the hallways eclipsing the recent events. There was a good mood in the air that not even the most disturbing articles in the Daily Prophet could dampen.
After Hogsmeade's attack, Hogwarts looked just a little brighter and warmer to Hermione, as if the students' unity had turned the castle into a beacon of hope.
When Zaiden had showed up for breakfast the first day, Evelyn had squealed and hugged him tight, jokingly squeezing him to her bosom in front of the four House tables.
Lessons resumed and Hermione was relieved to delve back into her studies, her bag growing heavier with books and assignments day by day. Her evenings were spent in the common room or in the library with Evelyn. Ravenclaws tended to study alone or among themselves by nature, but Evelyn was the exception; Slytherins and Gryffyndors alike sat around her, drawn by her cleverness and candor.
As for Hermione, she normally would have studied alone to avoid distractions, but after Hogsmeade she preferred the company of her classmates. Even if Evelyn and Feodor bickered or Alphard Black and Octavius Weasley decided to take a break and disturb the quiet by standing on the tables, she gladly sat with them, letting their presence chase away the memories, the fear.
But by nine in the evening, only four people would be sitting in a remote corner of the library, getting the last of their homework done in comfortable silence. Although she wasn't used to sharing her space with other people, Harry and Ron being the exception, this was better than being alone.
She was scared out of her wits, to put it bluntly. Feeling jumpier than usual, any harsh sound could set her off. She tried to cover her nervousness with various excuses, which the others accepted with a shrug, but at times she would catch Riddle looking at her with a thoughtful expression.
Tom Riddle.
She'd successfully avoided him for two months, and now here he was, in Evelyn and Hermione's favourite spot, usually on Feodor's right as if that was now his designated place. It hadn't been Riddle's choice, Feodor was the one who usually insisted his presence was required, but Hermione had never heard the younger boy protest, even when, Hermione knew, he would have preferred being on the other side of the library, away from everyone. She wondered if it was an act or if it was out of real friendship and respect that Tom let Feodor drag him to their study sessions or their table at meal times as if he were a lost puppy.
It was known that Riddle was the top student of his year, so he certainly didn't need any help with his homework, and yet he asked questions once or twice, when they were huddled together in their nook. And sometimes- sometimes he even joined them without Feodor's intervention.
Hermione did her best not to seem welcoming when he did. In fact, she didn't look at him at all while they studied, or at least she tried to. She couldn't help it, the raising of her gaze when his foot accidentally knocked against her toe as he leaned back in his seat, or when his pen brushed her knuckles as he dipped it into the ink bottle. It was as if tables shrank and space bent when he was around.
His figure was all sharp angles, dark hair and pale skin. Sometimes Hermione found herself tracing his features, from his hair to his eyes... only to find them too dark to be Harry's. She hated herself when that happened and it did more times than she was comfortable with.
The first time she had seen Riddle wearing reading glasses, her stomach had clenched painfully. She had had to fight her instinct with the shreds of willpower that remained within her not to lunge at the boy. It still happened. His fake smiles, his perfect act... his bloody well manners made her want to see the light in his dark eyes extinguished. Sitting across from him, unfinished homework under her nose, she had contemplated his death on more than one occasion.
"Like the daughter of Helen of Troy."
"Mudblood."
She wanted to hate him.
She tried to.
"We're not friends."
"Thank you."
.
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On a Wednesday afternoon, a first-year approached Hermione after Charms to hand her a note. Anxiety washed over her upon reading the card, but she immediately ran to Ravenclaw Tower to dump her satchel and books. Minutes later she was knocking on Dumbledore's office door.
"Enter," a calm voice called. Hermione stepped into the office.
Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, looking more tired than ever. He gave her a weak smile as she sat across from him.
"How are you doing, Hermione?" he asked kindly. He summoned a tray of biscuits and hot tea with a wave of his wand.
"I'm… fine," Hermione responded feebly, taking the cup that was offered her.
"I see." Dumbledore tilted his head to study her with his intuitive gaze, light catching onto the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "I'm sorry I wasn't here after the attack in Hogsmeade. I had business to attend to."
Hermione didn't say anything, his apology unnecessary. She quietly drank her tea, letting her eyes wander over the shapes of the peculiar objects lying on the desk.
"I won't ask you to talk about it," Dumbledore offered. "Not yet. We still have a little time."
Hermione wondered if he knew, if he could see what had happened in Hogsmeade right now. She couldn't. She wouldn't go back to that night- not yet.
Lowering her gaze to the bottom of her teacup, she almost laughed out loud when she noticed the shape of something like branches or roots through the dregs. Stupid Divination.
"How's your Occlumency coming?" the professor asked at last and Hermione felt the tension lift off her shoulders. This she could do.
When Dumbledore silently prodded her mind and tested her mental shields, she did her best to hold her own, but the art didn't come naturally to her; after only a short time she was sweating, memories slipping through her fingers. Yet it took Dumbledore more than five minutes to effectively tire her out and dismantle her mental walls.
Hermione slumped back in the chair, catching her breath.
Dumbledore looked satisfied. "Well, I dare say that Legilimens will have trouble accessing your thoughts."
Legilimens who aren't me, he seemed to say, dipping his head, and Hermione sighed in relief. Feeling more at ease, she reached across the desk to grab a biscuit off the tray and Dumbledore did the same, choosing a cookie covered with violet frosting. Her mood soured, though, when the man's gaze turned serious.
"What that woman did to you is..." he said, his voice low and dripping with pity. "I don't think that 'terrible' is the right word, Hermione. I'm most sorry for what you had to endure that night."
His eyes flicked to her left arm, to that patch of ruined skin covered by the sleeve of her blazer, the permanent reminder of a fact. Mudblood.
"Scars like yours don't heal easily, but every curse can be broken. I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you, Professor," she whispered.
"You're still grieving."
They both knew what he meant. Dumbledore would see her best friend in her head now and then. He had heard about him several times in the past months.
Harry Potter was dead. He had died in front of her, mere feet away.
Two months ago, in this office, Dumbledore had seen too much in her memories, her mental walls unable to keep him out.
"Hermione," Dumbledore started, snapping Hermione out of her haze, "your future might change for the worst or it might stay the same, but you can tell me. I won't divulge what we know nor use it for personal gain."
Hermione kept her lips pursed in a tight line, her fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs. She was shaking on the inside, straining against her instincts, her whole being commanding her to make this man suffer, make him pay, make him understand it was his fault, his fucking fault -
He had manipulated her best friend to the very end, had manipulated everyone from his bloody grave. For the Greater Good, of course, but at what cost?
Dumbledore's younger self didn't know – he wouldn't know.
She wasn't going to give him any ideas but a general picture. She kept the details to herself, not mentioning the duels or the missions of the Order. She didn't voice many of the names that had had a major role in the war, no matter on what side they had been, nor she referred to the Horcruxes.
But for some reason, she felt like explaining the pain and describing the killings. She wanted to let it all out and she did, retelling a story as if it were a fable without the happy ending, a fable of gore and grief.
Hermione didn't spare Dumbledore the details of the torture and the curses and the knife over her arm, carving into her flesh.
When her cruel tale took her to Malfoy Manor, Hermione noticed that Dumbledore was crying silently and the same sorrow and despair he had seen in her eyes were now reflected in his own. But how could he really understand what she felt? Wasn't he the reason for most of this horror? Wasn't he to blame for the death of her best friend-
Her best friend. She'd told him about Harry in a dispassionate voice, but now, now she was crying, openly sobbing at the memory of him taking off alone for the forest. She had followed, leaving behind a battle that had been lost to begin with.
"I followed him because I knew, I suspected it had to end like this, but I didn't want to believe it, so I went with him, b-because I wanted to- I wanted to... I didn't want him to die. But the Death Eaters saw me and tried to curse me, so I had to hide. I lost him and t-then I found him and he was already there, a-already in front of Vol- the Dark Lord, and he s-saw me and I distracted him, he could have fought and run away and it's my fault, I didn't give him the time to- to-"
"Harry knew what needed to be done. He chose to sacrifice himself."
He died for you! Hermione wanted to scream at him for even speaking his name. She felt the urge to destroy this office like Harry had once done, but she remained here, sitting in her chair, feeling exhaustion. Anger. Despair. But, above all, she felt guilt.
Dumbledore rose to his feet and went to stand in front of the window. It was snowing and a layer of frost coated the glass. Hermione hadn't realised how late it was: the study was now lit by candles, and warm flames were crackling in the fireplace.
With his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze fixed ahead, he said, "They think one of them is in the castle."
Hermione's back stiffened.
"When you arrived here in October, in your memories I heard…" he hesitated. "You know about the Hallows."
When Hermione didn't say anything, he turned around to face her. The usual twinkle in his eyes was absent. "Do you know who possesses it, Hermione?"
Hermione's face was answer enough. That didn't mean she was going to tell him. I n fact, she made sure her mental walls were firmly in place.
A look of displeasure crossed Dumbledore's features, but he didn't press for more, choosing to settle back into the chair and pick up the teapot to refill his porcelain cup with steaming liquid. He did the same with Hermione's and she gratefully took it from his hands. The tea was hot and exquisite, and it melted the anxiety out of her consciousness.
"Will those soldiers come back?" Hermione asked calmly. "Do you think they'll attack again?"
"I'm not sure." Deep wrinkles formed over Dumbledore's brows. "I never thought he'd attack like this."
"He fears you," Hermione said. She had read all about it in The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.
"I thought so too. This was... Hogsmeade was a statement."
"Of what?"
"Of his determination. The incidents, the kidnappings- he's gathering followers by the minute, Hermione." Dumbledore's words were laced with bitterness. "Chaos isn't his goal, quite the contrary. But to obtain absolute power, he has to destroy what the world knows first. And in Britain, more specifically in Scotland, there is something he wants- yes, something has changed. He needs to be here.
"He won't hold back this time."
When Hermione's gaze fell to the bottom of her drained cup, she found another distorted form. This time a chill ran down her spine as she made out the foreboding shape of two antlers through the dregs.
She snorted.
.
.
A/N: Describing Tom's voice is a struggle. It has a quality to it I can't put into words. He sounds like Sébastien Plader, but not as laid back and sexy, and the timbre is closer to Tom Hughes'. I spend way too much time thinking about it!