"You've tried extending the phonetic 'aa' sound?"
"Yes."
"You've tried every separate combination of emphasis on the syllables?"
"Yes."
"And gone through all the logical wand movements?"
"The illogical ones as well, ma'am."
Hermione watched as Professor Hilbert, a tall, German woman with a blonde buzz cut, grumbled to herself in her native tongue. With no explanation, she turned to the stack of tomes on the desk behind her and riffled through them. Hermione winced as she watched the older woman manhandle her books; the days of shredded books was far behind her, but Hermione still had a nervous tic. Professor Hilbert was the worst—even from Hermione's position feet away from her, she could see her mentor's scrawl slanting in the margins of her book in bright red ink. In some of the books Hilbert picked up, Hermione could see whole paragraphs she'd blacked out with a wide quib.
After a few minutes of no word from the German, Hermione ventured, "Perhaps I must rethink the incantation—"
"No," interrupted Hilbert, not sparing Hermione a glance, "you spent weeks trying to decode the most efficient number of syllables needed for the spell."
This was true; the professor had even sent Hermione's work to Hilbert's colleagues in France for second opinions, and then to Spain, Greece, and Carthage to be sure. All had agreed the incantation was correct.
"Perhaps I'm not equipped—"
At this, Hilbert's head shot up and she fixed Hermione a steely stare. Hermione snapped her mouth shut and fought to stop the mulish expression from crossing her face.
"You are no more less equipped than any else in your generation, miss Granger," the professor replied. "Most every spell to counter every problem has already been invented; there was a Golden Age of spell-creation, when there very little spells to combat a vast array of problems. Problem solving was easy. So spell creation was easy. That time has past."
"Yes," Hermione said after a beat, "I suppose what I am attempting is not as easy as inventing new householding charms."
Hilbert resumed her flipping before she said, "Yes, householding charms are indefinitely easier to cast and invent, especially after the invention of the first."
That was the crux of the matter; there was no precedent for spells restructuring the minds of those driven insane by somatic spells.
The idea had come to Hermione after a lesson on the Unforgivables during her fourth year. The professor had shown them moving pictures of a muggleborn witch who had been tortured with the Cruciatus for hours. The victim had been the unlucky target of an early Grindelwald loot in central Europe. The residual effects of the curse had left her with agoraphobia, a set of involuntary, full-body twitches, and a tendency to hallucinate near the anniversary of her torture date. Hermione's fourth-year professor had shown them the footage to drive home the horror of the use of the curse. His monotone narration had done nothing to soften some of the Hufflepuff's visceral reactions. During the lecture she had caught two male Slytherin classmates trading incredulous looks. Another Slytherin girl had murmured audibly, "Well, the women of that ilk do tend to be expire quicker," behind a gloved hand. Hermione had restrained herself. She had kept mum the entirety of the class. When everyone had left, Hermione had asked the professor for the name of the woman, and, if he would be so kind, to divulge where the lady lived now.
From there Hermione had started a regular correspondence with Paulina Abramovich, who coincidentally had been a researcher prior to her attack. After developing a strong trust in the other, Hermione had explained she had been interested in mind magic since she discovered her handiness with the Memory Charm, and she had dedicated herself to creating a spell meant to counter the harmful mental effects of curses which affect the body such as the Cruciatus. Would Paulina, as a muggleborn woman also interested in research, aid a fellow researcher?
Well, thought Hermione, it appears I may not have an update for Pauly this month. She was due to send Paulina news of her progress by the end of this week. Though, she amended, it may not surprise her. Progress on this project had been slow.
"Here are some texts a connect of mine sent for you," said Professor Hilbert, drawing Hermione's eyes away from her shoes.
Obediently, Hermione reached out to take them.
"You've also cross-referenced muggle texts on memory with their magic counterparts?"
"Yes," Hermione answered. The muggle texts had been easy enough to digest; the control, the independent variable, and the results were formatted in a convenient way. Commentaries and critiques were easy enough to find as well. Hermione thanked the high heavens for whoever had invented the scientific method. The wizarding equivalents were rarely so organized. One text she had read had been a terrible mix of early Middle English, the runic alphabet, Greek, and English. With little punctuation. Every other sentence made little grammatical sense. It had taken Hermione weeks to translate the book into runes, after which, she learned little from the text could be applied to her endeavor.
Nonetheless, Hermione refused to capitulate.
"You've hit a wall," observed Hilbert. "It may be time to revisit the premise."
"It may just be a problem which has no solu—"
"Incorrect," interjected Hilbert smoothly. "Revisit your premise. See me in two weeks."
Hermione nodded and stepped out of Hilbert's office. Anika Hilbert was, by job description, an Arithmancer and, by Hermione's estimation, a formidable instructor. The woman had a tendency of interrupting Hermione, but she supposed every student needed to be humbled during their formative years.
A couple of quick steps, a short journey through a hallway concealed by a tapestry, a flight down a staircase, through a door and Hermione was in an abandoned classroom near the Syltherin common room.
Hogwarts had an excess of classrooms, and it was common practice for students to claim some of them for private academic ventures. The best real estate on the upper floors had been claimed by Ravenclaws during her second year. During an early morning exploration of the dungeons, she had stumbled across a dusty classroom. The single window took up the entirety of one wall. If the Slytherin dormitories were completely under the Black Lake (thus, the greenish light and Grindylow window visits), then her classroom had been half-submerged. The bottom half of the classroom's wide window was dominated by the lake water. Hermione did not mind; it reminded her of an exhibit in an aquarium, where some seals swam below but one could still see some beached above.
With a wave of her wand, Hermione waved away layers of her wards. The air shimmered before revealing a handsome, carved wooden desk and a long table set along the sole, north-facing window. It was littered with papers, flasks, a couple cauldrons, and a bunsen burner. On the opposite side of the window, there was a row of bookcases filled to the brim. She had left the floor of the classroom bare, for times when she needed space to practice spell work. A while ago, Hermione had Transfigured a chair into a plush, olive loveseat, which she tucked into a cozy corner. Another chair had become an end table with a lamp. The piece de resistance of her set up was a cabinet fully stocked with international teas, spelled to set in the wall next to her loveseat.
After depositing her new books on the end table, Hermione spent a few minutes brewing tea, humming a little as she watched her teapot do a little jig with her mug, waving her hands to encourage two sugar cubes to join the dance. They seemed quite hesitant.
"There you are," Hermione said as the sugar cubes dropped into the mug full of steeping tea. The young woman sighed as she alighted on her loveseat, taking a sip and looking around her workspace.
There were only a couple minutes until dinner in the Great Hall, Hermione realized absently. She could take an early dinner and spend the rest of her night in here. The best thing about her space was how close it was to the entrance of Slytherin's dorm; even if she stayed out past curfew, she was usually able to return to her room without consequence. It was a much less nerve-wracking process than traveling from the library after curfew—she didn't even need to charm herself invisible, so rare was the chance of her being discovered.
"Meeowrrr." Crookshanks decided it was time to make himself known. He presented his squashed face to Hermione, who stretched out a hand to scritch at his nose. Crookshanks released a soft sound.
"Hello, cat," greeted Hermione. "Looking quite handsome on this eve, aren't you?"
Crookshanks gave a self-satisfied purr, luminous eyes narrowing in pleasure. He really was a gorgeous creature—half-Kneazle and half-Persian, with an immaculate fluffy orange and white coat. Hermione suspected her familiar was vain; the amount of times Crookshanks cleaned himself bordered was unnecessary. It was also in the way he interacted with other cats. If they weren't clean enough for him, Crookshanks would put his nose in the air, whip his bottlebrush tail, and refuse to entertain another feline presence.
Hermione rose and vanished her mug. "I'll bring you back something tasty," she said to Crookshanks's indignant look.
With a wave of her hand, she re-set her wards and stepped out of the classroom. The adjoining hallway was empty. Her steps echoed in the hallway, and she relished the sound.
The truth was, Hermione mused, she was unbelievably lucky to lead the life she was living, despite all odds. There was little she would change. Well, save for the issue of the stumbling block in her latest attempt at spell creation. But she had no doubt, once this project was completed, there would be new spells to create, new potions to brew, and new magical things to discover. She could easily spend the rest of her life in a perpetual state of discovery.
In fact, she was preparing to do so.
With a growing sense of satisfaction, Hermione entered the Great Hall and took a seat at Slytherin's table. As she was helping herself to a generous plate of chicken and dumplings, she noticed a large group of fellow Slytherin seventh years, led by Abraxas Malfoy. Her eyes flitted between him and his companions before she dismissed them in favor of taking a sip of water.
She had a couple of peaceful minutes before she heard a snide, feminine voice say, "My, she even eats like someone of her station."
The taunt was baseless; Hermione's mother was a stickler for dining ettitique—her extended family even more so. She had too many memories of disapproving stares and corrections said in that particular, Southern, American dulcet tone. The Browns were a coven of women who breathed china, sterling silver utensils, silk pantsuits, and sweet, iced tea. The three women who had situated themselves a few meters down from her had nothing on her aunts. Hermione openly watched them trade a few whispered words before one threw her head back and laughed.
"What are you staring at?" sneered one of them.
Hermione furrowed her brow, not liking the girl's tone. "I'm sorry?"
The black-haired girl curled her lip as her friend whispered something in her ear. Her eyes never left Hermione's, who met her stare impassively before returning to her food. This really does taste like Mum's cooking, she thought to herself. The house-elves have outdone themselves this year, replicating an American dish—
"Hem hem, no, Sinny, I much prefer to watch my figure," said the black-haired girl in response to whatever her friend had whispered. Her voice was slightly raised just to make sure it reached Hermione. The trio had recaptured her attention.
"Yes," added another, "not all of us eat as if it is their last meal."
Hermione only raised a brow as she finished her plate and reached for cornbread. She was happy to find it tasted just as sweet and buttery as cornbread should be. Delicious, she thought in wonder. It was a brilliant move to write down her mother's recipe and hand it off to the house elves. She'd have to write her mum with the news.
"Look at her, munching like a fat co—"
"Are you speaking to me?" Hermione said, turning an eye to the trio. She squinted at them.
"Have we met before?" she furthered. Hermione didn't remember having classes with any one of them; her memory was nearly eidetic—surely she would have recognized one of them. Perhaps they were in a lower year. "I don't think we've met, could you remind me of your names?"
Unaffected by the mixed looks of disgust and hesitation, Hermione waited for a couple of beats before she offered,
"I'm Hermione."
She chewed her cornbread, waiting for a response. The women muttered a bit before chittering among themselves.
Unbeknowsnt to the four women, the exchange had garnered some male attention. It had started with Antonin Dolohov being less than attentive to the present conversation, instead choosing to look down the table. At first, Abraxas had been mildly put out—what, honestly, was so interesting about Dolores Umbridge, Alecto Carrow, and Sinistra Lowe?—until he looked closer. The girls had decided to pick at the mudblooded girl. Admittedly, Granger didn't look too flustered. There was something in the dumb tilt of her head, the foolish way she continued to chew even as the other women threw out their taunts. The genuine, doltish look she give the younger girls convinced Tom Granger had no self-awareness about her at all—the handful of times she'd been called a number of slurs, the brown-skinned girl had never reacted. Tom would bet good money she had little idea what the word "mudblood" even meant. She might consistently tie with him in exams and grades, but it was clear the bookworm had no street sense. She'd probably be devastated when she learned exemplar grades meant nothing in the face of her birth status.
If he was a character in a novel, he supposed the author might juxtapose the two of them; both undesirables whose excellence afforded them a certain amount of privilege. He had been named Head Boy with a fast track to a Ministry job, and Granger had remained a Slytherin despite her parentage.
"Would you look at that," murmured Antonin, "courtesy silences vitriol."
Abraxas leaned a cheek on his hand, before he said, "More like appropriate deference. The ladies are easily placated when treated properly."
Tom bit back a sigh and met Antonin's eyes. Malfoy's prejudice was precisely why he was not a member of Tom's inner circle. Pureblood supremacy, though a helpful mechanism, had been disproven the minute he had been conceived by his cunt of a mother.
He took a savage sort of pleasure knowing Wizarding Britain's youngest and brightest fell over themselves to please him. Now the panting masses of purebloods, all scions of their house, orbited around him. Each one of their sycophantic remarks, sidelong glances, and holiday invitations extended to him was testament to his superiority. Often Tom felt as though he was alone walking through a garden during the height of spring. All was his to enjoy.
Misinterpreting Tom's absent-minded stare in Granger's direction, Antonin raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips in askance. Tom shook his head in response as he resumed his meal.
"Too plain?" the Russian teased. Hermione Granger was not ugly in the least—any wizard could admit that.
"As exotic as she looks, her most exciting hobby is probably knitting," remarked Abraxas with a wave of his hand. "Not a witch worth doing."
Tom hummed in amusement, watching Dolohov's eyes run over Hermione's robed figure making her way out of the door.
Antonin, besides being a quick study and a loyal follower, had tendencies which might have disturbed Tom if not for his own predilections. He was not surprised to witness the dark-haired boy rise and follow the girl out of the Great Hall, hands in his pockets.
"Tom, have you read the Prophet today?" asked Rodolphus Lestrange.
"A tragedy," sniffed Abraxas. "The Ministry made a grave mistake."
"No doubt this will anger the older houses. If the current administration means to implement change, they are doing a poor job of it."
Abraxas tilted his head, cheek still in hand as he agreed, "This oversight has no precedent." Glancing at Tom through a fringe of thick, blond eyelashes, "One might even lose faith in the system."
This morning, the Daily Prophet had relayed news concerning housing for the burgeoning, young Wizarding class. A newly passed bill granted Ministry funds to an architectural firm to conjure "innovative designs which marry structure with magical efficiency." Brunelleschi & Vaughn was the experimental brainchild of a half-blood man and a muggleborn man who had studied as a muggle architect prior to living in the Wizarding world. Their work was well-respected; they specialized in Undetectable Extension charms and, according to the Prophet, "sentient home-making." It was assumed Brunelleschi & Vaughn would be developing Ministry-owned land. Just like that, an amount in excess of three million Galleons was allocated to the small firm. In their excitement to fund B&V, the Wizengamot had been unaware the sum of land the firm had secured for the project was located in privately owned parts of Diagon Alley.
The Ministry bill had only served to grant money—not outline restrictions. There was a quiet, unidentified wizarding conglomerate which had been buying the deeds of condemned buildings around the Knockturn area. Whomever had negotiated the property contracts had wrangled ownership of the buildings and the physical land on which they stood. A source had informed the Daily Prophet Brunelleschi & Vaughn would be developing a new housing district in Knockturn.
"No need to fear," the Prophet had consoled, "Diagon Alley will not be unrecognizable. Richard Vaughn says, 'We respect the history and beauty of the older Edwardian style of the buildings in Knockturn. We are most interested in the interiors of those buildings.'"
The project was set to be done by the time they graduated.
"It's ludicrous the Ministry and the Wizengamot would allow such expensive foolery," said Tom finally.
"It certainly is a loss in the court of public opinion," Abraxas said. "How does one allow such a giant loophole? That money was mostly contributed by purebloods."
"B&V have made clear their stance on wizarding heritage," informed the Prophet. "Phil Brunelleschi shared, 'My father tells me stories of when he first moved to Wizarding London. For many in his generation, it was impossible to find a decent place to live in because of their [blood] status. The landlords who did rent to him didn't allow him to use magic to improve the property. Many older muggleborns were stuck in flats with asbestos. Or living in complexes with Doxie infestations. The property owners we are working with are sympathetic to that and wish to treat all of their future tenants equally, regardless of who their parents are."
"Essentially, the old coots have been had," said Rodolphus Lestrange, who had tuned into the conversation.
"Perhaps the Ministry needs an influx of young eyes," said Tom, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, looking through his lashes at the young Malfoy heir.
Abraxas gave a small, secret smile. A sharp light entered his downturned eyes before he looked off into space. There was no doubt he was thinking of his own future. The sole heir to the Malfoy fortune had settled a year-long apprenticeship to a law firm to start the week after their Hogwarts graduation. Tom thought it would be helpful to have a friend on track to a Wizengamot seat.
Tom watched as Antonin returned the same way he left. The Russian said nothing as he retook his seat.
"Well?" prompted Rodolphus with expectant eyes.
"What?" asked Dolohov.
"No stories of the muddy bird you followed, Antya? Twenty minutes is a record," Tom contributed.
The young man furrowed his brow before smoothing his face out. "I went to the restroom."
"Yes, and what of Granger?"
Antonin shrugged as Tom's eyes narrowed.
Odd.
Nonetheless, there would be no time to pursue it—it was time to oversee patrols. As if on cue, Minerva McGonagall had stood from her place at Gryffndor, looking across the room to nod at Tom. Minerva resembled a tall rectangle wearing a gold-and-red tie. The Head Girl had tragically been deprived of all common gifts to the female persuasion; McGonagall had no hips, a flat chest, boxy shoulders, thin lips, and short lashes. Her fine, light brown hair was cut to her chin. Her brows were arched and sparse. A set of wire-rimmed glasses framed a pair of gray, hooded eyes. In Tom's opinion, Minerva's two redeeming qualities were her legs—they were quite shapely, and he found himself admiring her calves, in a mannish matter.
By the way McGonagall's eyes swept him over, it was clear she was not attracted to him either.
"All right, Riddle?" she greeted as he approached.
"Minerva!" he smiled. "How are you?"
"Quite well. Thank you for asking. I shall take the first shift. That leaves you with the last." With this and a short nod, McGonagall turned on her heel and walked away. Tom just barely stopped his face from twisting in annoyance. Haughty bint.
So Tom Riddle found himself strolling along, completing the graveyard shift. It was fortunate Tom rarely slept; otherwise he might have been more annoyed Minerva had foisted the night shift on him. Nothing of note ever happened during the night shifts; after twelve it was rare for him to catch a student out of bed, especially this early into the school year. He was quite at home, however, among the dark hallways lit by fire light. Electricity did not work in Hogwarts, and Tom had once asked a ghost who was responsible for lighting the torches at night, to which the ghost had given a blank look before saying something to the effect of "the castle knows."
Sentience. An aware building. Tom toyed with the B&V dilemma again. All governments made mistakes—the true issue was the identity of the wizarding conglomerate who had bought out Knockturn. Lestrange and Black had offered to make some discreet inquiries to determine who the group was. He was expecting an update in a couple of weeks. Tom needed to know what the motive of the group was—why Knockturn? Why be anonymous? Obviously, the group had some monetary pull. Were they foreign? How did Brunelleschi and Vaughn get in contact with them?
If the group was pureblooded, Tom surely would have heard of it before the Prophet article. There was a possibility it was a mixed group of blood sympathesizing purebloods, half bloods, and a few muggleborn wizards. More concerning would be a group of mudbloods who now owned part of Wizarding Britain's downtown. It would mean they had both quietly made a large purchase and amassed the funds to do so. In either case, the move represented a shift in status quo, especially in the wake of Grindelwald's defeat earlier in the summer. Tom scowled in thought. Of course, the focus of the whole of Europe was its recovery from that particular Dark Lord, but nonetheless, someone should have noticed deeds changing hands. How had all of this happened without anyone knowing?
The sound of a door closing drew Tom's attention.
Hermione Granger was standing a scant few meters down the corridor Tom had just turned into. Her robe was missing, and Tom could see a gleam shimmering under the dark green material of her tights. Tom guessed someone had thought to weave silver thread them, and they caught the light of the lit torches in the hallway.
"You're past curfew," Tom said as he neared.
To her credit, Hermione did not show any sign of surprise as she turned to him. "Head Boy," she greeted.
"Do you have an explanation?" Tom had found it was best to ask transgressing students this question before doling out punishments—it made him seem more relatable.
"I was looking for my cat," she replied, eyes shifting to him before she looked at a point over his shoulder.
"Your cat," Tom repeated.
The girl bobbed a nod, shifting from one foot to the other.
"At twelve in the morning."
"Crookshanks is a nocturnal animal, but he's got a terrible sense of direction. I'm afraid he had gotten lost on the way back to the dungeon," she said, hand in her hair as she scanned the area. "I don't suppose I'll find him tonight. I don't fancy you'd be willing to help me find my familiar."
Tom gave a near-silent nasal sigh. The mudblooded girl really had no sense of self. He'd not be caught dead helping some chit search for a cat in the wee hours of the morning. Dumb as rocks, she was.
Tom was opening his mouth to respond when Hermione turned expectant eyes on him.
"Well, what's my punishment?" she asked as she moved farther away from the door she was near. Tom noted this.
"I think you can be let off with a warning. Try not to be out late again, hmm? I hate to take points from one of our own." As the words left his lips, Tom scanned Granger's profile. Antonin had followed the girl out during dinner, hadn't he? She was acting awfully regular.
"I'll escort you back to the dormitory."
At this Hermione shrugged and followed his stride, apparently comfortable in the dark and in the silence between them.
Curiosity struck. "Did you talk to Antya after dinner? I saw him follow you out."
"Who is Antya?" the girl asked.
"Antonin."
"Who?"
"Dolohov."
"Antonin Dolohov," Granger replied. She had a quiet voice, and there was something in her accent which seemed off—the r's of her words were a hair too sharp to be properly English. "Is he one of your friends?"
"Yes." Antonin and Rodolphus were the closest things to friends Tom could foresee himself having.
"No," she said with a certain sort of finality, "why would he?"
Here she turned an eye on him. The timing was perfect; the light of a nearby torch caught her irises, and Tom could distinguish her pupil from her dark iris. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and something in her expression made him choose his words carefully.
"No reason," he said, gaze measuring her response, "maybe he thought you were upset. You know, after the thing with Dolores and the rest."
Granger blinked and said, "What?"
"The remarks they made about you," he clarified.
"Who is 'they?'"
Tom grit his molars. "You know. Dolores Umbridge. Sinistra. Alecto. The three girls at dinner."
"Oh," she said. Then Granger gave him an odd look as she stated, "I don't know any of them. You called one of them Dolores. Is she one of your friends, as well?"
What were they even talking about?
"—know much about other classmates. I've been so focused on my studies; it takes a bit of effort on my part to make excellent grades."
"So Antya didn't talk to you? He seemed concerned," Tom said.
Granger didn't appear to hear him as she said the password to a bare stretch of wall:
"Discriminating truth."
Intuition tingled at him as the brown girl stepped through into the common room. Something here was not adding up. As Granger turned to thank him, Tom let a mental tendril extend to probe at the girl's mind.
What he found was both open and closed. There was a feeling of entering a large, rotund room with colorless walls and no doors before Tom withdrew.
Hermione was now giving him a polite, unassuming smile.
"Good night," he found himself saying.
She nodded and disappeared into her room. Tom watched her close her door.
Something was not adding up at all.
What do you think is not adding up? Tell me your predictions.
Thank you for reading.