Thank you all so much for taking the time to review! I can't tell you how much it lifts my spirits to even just get a smiley face from you. It's really encouraging and keeps me writing! So thank you.

To Melon, who reviewed as a guest so I was not able to PM her back: I totally understand that Hermione seems sexist in chapter 5, and I didn't really realize it until you pointed it out. I suppose, even though I am unlike Hermione Granger's character in virtually every way, I do share one thing with her: I grew up with two guys as my best friends. Though Hermione does have female friends – Ginny and Luna – she never really connected with any females like she did with Harry and Ron, and only marginally did so in fifth year. And I suppose I can relate strongly to this. Besides one early childhood friend who I still occasionally see because our families are so intertwined, I made my first real girl-friend when I was twenty-two. Though I had fun with some of the girls on my hall in college (which lasted for just three semesters, lol), I always fit in better with the boys and soon became the sweetheart of a fraternity and was somewhat ostracized by the general female population (with a few exceptions). The same thing happened in middle and high school as well: my two best friends (one of who died in a car accident and the other of who now lives in Tokyo) were both very popular, attractive, outgoing guys and we were very close and girls hated me because I was this largely average girl who wasn't even that much of a tomboy either (although I did straddle the line, the whole outdoorsy-sky-diving-backpacking type fits me to a T) so why on earth would they possibly be interested in me? Despite being exceptionally socially gifted (I'm naturally very outgoing and both of my parents were ministers so I learned how to work social circles growing up), I always felt slightly intimidated by girls because they only used me to get to my guyfriends, and I became generally wary of them as a result. Things are a little bit different now that I'm a bit older, and most people have grown up by now, but I still remember being painfully immersed in a world of insecure teenaged girls (who ironically were usually much prettier than I was) that endeavored to put me down in front of my friends to make themselves look better. It never worked, because I had some kick-ass friends that were so above that sort of petty shit; but it did its damage, and it definitely changed the way I view the world of women. However, let it be said that men are flawed. Very, VERY FLAWED. So flawed. Believe me, I am under no illusions that one sex is better than the other. (Like Hermione, I spent quite some time sharing a camper with my two best friends, and let me tell you – RESPECT. Respect for Hermione, 'cause DAMN, I could not imagine spending a YEAR with those two buffoons, and no amount of love can change that.) The moral of the story is: if Hermione seems to be sexist, that is simply my own sexism shining through my writing. And that's my fault. Don't blame Hermione. She is, unfortunately, subject to my bias. Sorry about that.

Also, a size 32 in Europe is a size two in America. Just so people get that (it's referenced very briefly a few paragraphs down).

One more thing: no, this is not going to be a love triangle story. I already have one of those, and I don't think I want to do it again, because it was not only poorly thought out and executed on my part, but also an exhausting dynamic to keep up with. So no.

oooo

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places. –Ernest Hemmingway

There have to be moments when you glimpse something decent, something life-affirming even in the most twisted character. That's where the real art lies. See, I always suspect characters who are painted as lovely, decent human beings. I would always question where the darkness lies. – Martin McDonagh

Make ash and leave the dust behind
Lady diamond in the sky
Wild light
Glowing bright
To guide me
When I fall
I fall on tragedy
Welcome to the inner workings of my mind
So dark and foul I can't disguise
Can't disguise
Nights like this
I become afraid
Of the darkness in my heart
Hurricane
- "Hurricane" by MSMR

oooo

Saturday, February 8, 1997

Oxford

The sense of horror when she sees her parents strung up from their kitchen ceiling, missing their eyes and tongues, sporting broken necks and backs that are bent unnaturally – no swift, painless Avada Kedavra for them – is so acute that she cannot help but fall to her knees.

Dumbledore is suddenly there, bursting through the door, and McGonagall is hot on his heels. Harry and Ron come crashing through a moment later, and she is surrounded by the two people that she loves most in the world. But she cannot take her eyes off of her parents, who are beaten and bloodied and have obviously been hideously tortured.

They had been on their way out the door, all set to move to Australia. Hermione had initially been waiting for the summer to modify her parent's memories, but Dumbledore had advised her to do it as soon as possible. Things in England are getting worse and worse every day. No one is safe anymore.

She had been too late in acting, and now her parents swing from the ceiling of their house like distorted puppets.

Later, it takes Ginny and Luna's gentle hands to undress her and wash the blood off of her skin and out of her hair. Hermione vaguely remembers being on her hands and knees in the river of red, inconsolable, clutching at her hair with bloodied hands. Now she sits, numb, in the prefects' bath as her two friends scrub and massage her skin.

Her parents. Dead. Horribly, awfully murdered by Voldemort and his foul followers.

Harry and Ron come in later after she has climbed in the bed – she has been given a separate dorm, for a few days, to recover; she does not want to face the girls in her dormitory – and they slip under the covers on either side of her, each grabbing one of her hands. She squeezes them so tight that she knows it must hurt, but they don't say a word against it.

"We love you, Hermione," Harry says, and Ron hums in fervent agreement, dropping a kiss on her forehead. In any other situation she would have been ecstatic at the show of affection – she has loved Ron for a while, after all – but this evening all she can think about is how her parents are dead, and they are never coming back, and how they hadn't even known who she was when they were being tortured in their own home for no apparent reason.

She cries for a long time. Sometimes she stops to nap, sometimes she stops and has a cup of tea, sometimes she plays the name game with Harry and Ron as they hold her in their loving embrace.

And she realizes just how much she loves them, and feels how much they love her, and she is thankful. For no matter what happens, she will always have these two unfailingly devoted buffoons by her side.

If they all sleep in the same bed for a few nights in a row, no one speaks a word against it.

oooo

Hermione woke in a cold sweat, flashes of green light still lingering behind her eyelids. She just lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling, letting her heart rate slow and her eyes adjust to the dim light of dawn.

Her body felt frozen. When she finally did make the effort to move, it was like she was made of rusty hinges. She groaned and winced in pain as her body, still trying to recover from its injuries, loudly protested against any sort of movement. Ignoring it, she spent several minutes stretching – a suggestion made by Madam Soranus – and then took a deep breath and began to prepare for the day.

It was a Wednesday. The twentieth of September. She couldn't believe that she was already twenty-three. She was glad she had been so distracted yesterday that she had been able to mostly keep it from her mind. She had learned to deal with it, over the past couple of years, but it was still understandably hard for her. But today also marked the day of the beginning of her two month long imprisonment and torture. Today was the date that she had first awoken in her cell to the smell of blood and death.

Sighing, she took a bath and dressed in the brand new robes and uniform that had been waiting for her in her dorm the night before. She reluctantly knotted the red and gold tie around her neck, somehow feeling like she didn't belong in the colors anymore.

And I see you have a lovely array of spells accredited to your name, Miss Granger…I'm impressed with your level of innovation, if not with the dark intent behind it. You would be bored as a Ravenclaw. You would chew all of Hufflepuff up and spit it out without even needing to floss, I fear, though your heart is, undoubtedly, in the right place. Whilst as a first year you were unflinchingly noble and honest, you seem to have developed a very "means-justifies-the-ends" sort of thought process over the last few years (even starting as a second year, illegally brewing Polyjuice in the girls' bath - creative use of a lavatory, I admit). I cannot say that I approve or disapprove – I see your memories, I see the things you've been through, despite your attempts to block me out with Occlumency; though you must know from "Hogwarts: A History" that the mind magics do not work on me, dear girl – and I can understand how desperate you have become. You are fundamentally still a Gryffindor, Miss Granger – I promise you that will never change – but something has been warped, deep down, and I cannot help but feel like you might do better in Slytherin. Then again, there is the issue of the phoenix that has seen fit to intrude upon your person, which is another matter entirely…

She was not so surprised that the Sorting Hat had thought to put her in Slytherin. Oh, she knew she would end up insisting on Gryffindor, but as she had blossomed into a full-grown woman she had seen the changes that had occurred within her. She was still Hermione Granger, but her life experiences had shaped her dramatically, and it showed. She was quite different from the girl she had been in school. Sometimes she liked herself better this way. Other times, she missed the old Hermione; but she knew that the old Hermione would never have survived in the environment of such a dirty, bloody war. She had adapted, and no one could fault her for that. Draco had adapted, as well, out of necessity. He had forced himself to learn to play nice with others and collaborate with people he had nothing in common with. And eventually he had realized that he did have something in common with them, something important: survival. Life. And he had learned to care about something other than himself and his family. He had learned how to be vulnerable.

Hermione wished he were here.

Pulling on her shoes, she placed featherweight charms on her books and threw them into the nice new leather satchel that Dumbledore had gifted her. She looked around; two of her four dorm mates were still abed, and another was in the shower. Sabrina was gone. Straightening her jumper, she once again thought of Draco.

It felt surreal, knowing that he was going to die. She'd prepared herself for the possibility, sure; you had to, when you were risking your life everyday. But it was one thing to expect an Avada Kedavra to the chest at any time – it was entirely another to watch as your body gradually betrayed itself. She had never imagined that Draco would die slowly. The anticipation was different, somehow.

Hauling her body off the window seat where she'd put on her shoes, she gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, along with a couple of foul tasting potions, walked down the stairs, and opened the door to the girls dorms only to come face to face with Lupin and Prewett. Lupin had his hand raised to knock, but at Hermione's appearance he let it fall back down by his side.

"Good timing, Hermione!" Ignatius piped up, smiling at her. She found herself smiling back.

"We just thought we'd walk you down to the Great Hall for breakfast," Lyall said, his grey-blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "Wouldn't want you to suddenly have a fainting spell or something."

She snorted, amused. "So glad to have you two heroes around to rescue me if I need you."

Lyall ran a hand through his sable brown hair. "We're courageous and noble like that. Gryffindors, remember?" he said, pulling at his tie.

"We're in the business of rescuing damsels in distress," Ignatius added with a cheeky grin.

Hermione gave a wry smile. These two reminded her entirely too much of the Weasley twins, although they lacked the ability to finish each other's sentences in the same way. "Can we just hurry up and get to breakfast, you ponces? I'm starving." She paused, and scanned the corridors, noticing only a handful of scattered students meandering down to breakfast.

"This is surreal," she said, feeling the lightened weight of the books on her shoulder and watching as Gryffindors trickled down the corridor in ones and twos. "I forgot what it's like to be in school," she admitted, and it was entirely true. "It brings back a lot of memories." A picture of Ron, Harry and her walking down to the Great Hall together flashed through her brain, and her throat constricted.

Prewett's brow furrowed. "But aren't Draco and you still in school, too?"

"Not for a while now," she said, sticking with the story she and Dumbledore had agreed on after some in-depth discussion. "Things in the East have been bad for quite some time. Draco's parents and my own moved to China when we were children, and we started at a wizarding school there when we were ten – that's where we met." Schools in the East usually accepted students a year earlier than schools in Europe, and it was the sort of small detail that lent credibility to their story. "The war broke out during our third year, and in our fifth year the school was attacked and destroyed. Essentially, we became soldiers out of necessity. Things are a mess over there – have been for years. Our schooling sort of fell by the wayside. We learned what we could through books and through more experienced wizards whenever they had the chance to teach us, but mostly we taught ourselves. So it's been a while since we've actually sat through a class," she said, keeping her tone light lest things become too serious.

"Merlin," Ignatius breathed, and Lyall's face mirrored his friend's, painted with shock and consternation. "That sounds terrible. And here I was thinking how much school sucked and how I can't wait for it to be over."

Rather than be offended, Hermione chuckled. They'd all felt the same way once upon a time; ignorance really was bliss. "School is easy," she told them, readjusting the strap of her bag. "The real world is hard. And war is hell."

The two younger boys were silent after that, seemingly contemplative. Of course, Hermione couldn't tell them that Draco and she had really been fighting in a full-scale war for over five years, and before that she had been exposed to increasing amounts of unrest for seven years – all through school, right here in Hogwarts. Since Hermione's first year she had been battling with Voldemort in some form or other. Draco had had it relatively easy until Voldemort regained his true form in their fourth year and things had become all too real for him and his family.

Se couldn't tell them that yesterday had been her twenty-third birthday, not her eighteenth, and that Draco had turned twenty-two that June. She couldn't let them in on the fact that Draco and she had traveled back in time by over half a century and that their charismatic Head Boy – who, even though he was a Slytherin, students of all houses looked up to – was destined to become the darkest wizard of all time; that he would be responsible for thousands of deaths. She couldn't tell Lyall that his only son would die at the hand of one of his current classmates, Dolohov, and that his grandson would be orphaned before he reached his first birthday. She couldn't tell Ignatius that his nephews and nieces would be tortured and slaughtered by some of Voldemort's most loyal followers. She couldn't tell them that the guilt of being alive while so many others had died around her was eating at her day after day. She couldn't tell them that Draco's own aunt had doomed him to die. She couldn't tell them that she, driven by rage and revenge, had sometimes turned to dark magic to satisfy her needs; magic that she did not fully understand. She couldn't tell them that the war in China in the 1940s was child's play compared to the war in Britain in the 1990s and 2000s.

Ah. Well. The only option available to her now was just to try to keep her head above water. Breakfast was a good place to start.

She walked down to the Great Hall with her two friends, chattering on about this and that. When they reached the Great Hall they went to go sit next to Sabrina, who smiled at Hermione.

"Sorry I didn't wait for you this morning, Hermione," she said, spearing a piece of sausage and shoving it into her mouth. "I have a meeting with Professor Dumbledore before class starts, so I needed to get up earlier than usual." As soon as Hermione and the two boys sat down, Sabrina jumped up and grabbed her bag. "Sorry, but I've got to run – I'll see you all in Transfiguration!"

Hermione shook her head. "She's…perky," she commented, looking after Sabrina as the girl left with a bounce in her step.

Ignatius laughed from across the table. "That's our Sabrina. She's quite the early bird." He looked at her expectedly, and she forced herself to meet those all-too-familiar eyes. "Well, aren't you going to eat?" he asked, gesturing to the plate that had appeared in front of her.

"Oh yeah…food," she said lamely, looking at the array of choices spread out on the table.

Anger bubbled forth, but she kept it off her face. It was such a bountiful spread, and so much of it would go to waste, and she hadn't had a full meal in months! Her appetite abruptly vanished. The irony of the situation wasn't funny at all. What she would've given to have even a portion of this after they had been ousted from Grimmauld Place last year.

"Come on, Hermione, you'd blow over in a strong wind," Lyall said, pushing the plate of scrambled eggs towards her.

She smiled at him, but it did not reach her eyes. "I guess my appetite just hasn't caught up to the sudden abundance of food. I'm still processing the change – my stomach is, too." She raked some eggs on to her plate and downed half a glass of pumpkin juice and a mug of coffee, forcing herself to get things down. She was still trying to recover from the battle – it wouldn't do to keep starving herself. She needed to eat. She just didn't necessarily want to eat. An image of Pansy traipsing through the forest with Hermione came to mind. She had first realized just how skinny Pansy had become as she had noticed that her friend's ribs were poking out and that she was wearing a belt to keep a pair of Hermione's shorts up – Hermione was a size thirty-two. It had been difficult to see her friend in such bad shape.

She stood immediately after she was finished, intending on getting to the loo before class. She waved the two boys goodbye and in a flash was gone, leaving Lyall and Ignatius staring after her blankly.

"Well, that was quick," Ignatius said to his friend as the doors to the Great Hall banged shut behind her.

Lyall hummed in agreement. Hermione Granger seemed like a very nice girl, but she was definitely peculiar. He shrugged and continued his breakfast.

oooo

Hermione stood in a little used girl's lavatory on the ground floor; just down the hall from the Transfiguration class she was about to take. She looked down at her wand. Something had changed. It no longer responded to her in the same way – she lifted it, trying to cast her patronus, and sighed as a weak tendril of light sputtered out the end.

She attempted to transfigure a bar of soap into a hairbrush; she succeeded, but the end of the hairbrush was melted and disfigured.

"Not good," she whispered to herself, staring at her haunted face in the mirror. Her eyes were large and brown, but as she stared at them, she could swear that she saw the golden silhouette of a phoenix reflected in her pupils. It was gone as soon as it was there, but Hermione knew what she'd seen.

"Fawkes!" she whispered, gritting her teeth and casting a heavy locking and silencing spell on the room. "I know you're in there," she continued furiously. "You can't hide forever. Tell me what you've done to my magic! Everything's changed!"

Fawkes' essence suddenly flared to life inside her, and she staggered backwards into the door of a toilet stall. She bounced on the wooden surface, and then reeled forward again and hit the sink. Every nerve ending was on fire, very synapse in her brain was whirring, every part of her skin was flushed. She looked in the mirror, and her dark eyes were swirling with a shocking golden-orange. The tips of her curls seemed to spit fire, snapping and sparking as if alive.

It was painful, at first; and then the pain morphed into warmth, and her body was flooded with it. Her knees gave out from the overload of her senses, and, using the edge of the sink for support, she lowered herself to the floor.

The heat slowly faded, turning into a low simmer that receded to reside solely in her midsection. She took big, heaving breaths, the way Remus had showed her years before to handle stress. It worked. Within a minute, her heart rate had slowed, and she wiped away hot tears that she hadn't realized she'd shed. She lay back on the bathroom tile, unconcerned with how unsanitary it may have been; the coolness felt marvelous against her skin. She waited a moment or two, continuing to breathe, until she felt she could sit up. When she did, her head swam for a moment before she steadied.

She grabbed for her wand, but saw it on the floor all the way across the room. When she tried to summon it wandlessly and wordlessly, her fingertips heated and she saw the skin of her hand glowing eerily. It reminded her of when she was little, sitting in the dark with a flashlight and holding it against her fingers to see the way the light turned her fingertips reddish-orange because of the blood that ran under the skin. Except this was uncomfortable – when the light flared to life it felt as if a very sharp needle had pricked each of her fingers.

"All right!" she snapped, resentful. "Obviously you don't want me using Bellatrix's old wand – but why? It's a perfectly good wand. I've made it my wand. I've earned its loyalty. And it wasn't exactly easy, either, I'll have you know."

Her hand seemed to move of it's own accord, reaching down into her sock and pulling out her little shrunken bag. She stared at it.

"Absolutely not," she said, shaking her head. She knew what Fawkes wanted. "It's too dangerous."

Without warning the real Fawkes – or the one from this time, anyway – swooshed through the open window and landed next to her on the floor. She nearly screeched with surprise, but she was far too easily startled lately, and she resisted the urge.

"Now I'm outnumbered," she grumbled, struggling to meet Fawkes the phoenix's wise black eyes. She managed to look over at him, leveling him a glare. "I'm not going to use that wand."

Fawkes cocked his head to the right, as if to say "Why?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Because it's unpredictable!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. "I've only used it a few times, and never around other people, just experimentally. And it's just flashy. My goal is to try to keep Tom Riddle's attention elsewhere. To try to be as ordinary and boring as possible. I have every intention of being so unremarkable that the young Lord Voldemort won't even see me. A few subtle notice-me-not charms will go a long way, too."

Fawkes just stared at her, and his future counterpart, trapped within her body and soul, gave off a ripple of energy that was purely negative.

She huffed. "You don't think that's a good idea?" she asked, looking at the Fawkes that was right in front of her. In response he picked up the tiny bag with his beak and set it on her lap.

She sighed and ran her hands over her face. "Yeah, I wasn't banking on absolute success with that either. Although I'm still going to try, whether you like it or not. But since you seem so determined to make sure I can no longer use my wand…" She rolled her eyes, unshrinking her bag and reaching an arm down inside. She stuck her head in as well, and then finally was on all fours, half of her body inside the bag. She cursed as she knocked over a stack of books that's sticking charm had obviously worn off. She would have to recast it later, so that things didn't go tumbling around in there. Finally she found what she was looking for, her fingers closing over a smooth wooden box the length of her forearm.

"Ah ha!" she said triumphantly. With some effort, she pulled herself back out and once again sat upon the floor. She stared at the box uneasily. She looked up at Fawkes, who watched her with kind, patient eyes. She swallowed, and then, taking a deep breath, opened it.

There it sat in its acacia box, nestled into a bed of velvet. One of the most beautiful wands she had ever seen. The most unusual thing about it, of course, was that it was a bright reddish pink.

Not annoyingly so. Hermione wasn't a big fan of pink herself. But it was so bright and polished, so gorgeous and unique, that the deep, bright shade of it didn't bother her.

The wood was called pink ivory, a lovely, uncommon tree that was only found in certain parts of Africa. Its wood was extremely hard; unyielding, as Mister Ollivander would have said. Less than a hundred African witches and wizards carried wands of pink ivory. As the maker had explained to her, it was a very powerful wood, and had traits similar to what one might find with ebony, walnut, aspen and hornbeam. However, it reacted differently to each person; and would be loyal to that person for life. It could never be used by another.

As soon as Hermione had walked into that little hut in east Africa, the wand had flown out of its protective case and into her hand immediately. The elder, an ancient man with few teeth that spoke better English than Hermione would have expected, brought the case immediately to Hermione – without even officially meeting her or learning her name – and told her that she was the first person in half a century, since his grandfather had made the wand, that it had chosen. And, alas, it had hummed under her touch, and casting magic with the thing was a work of art in and of itself.

One thing set this wand apart, however. It was made with nundu heartstring, quickly harvested by the lucky wandmaker who had stumbled upon the freshly dead body of one. Nundus were considered to be the most dangerous creature alive – it reportedly took over a hundred wizards to subdue just one. They were perilous, unpredictable creatures, and the fact that this African tribesman in Zimbabwe had gotten his hands on a material so rare blew her mind. And because there wasn't a lot known about nundus to begin with, she did not have much to research; and Hermione hated things she couldn't research. She had no idea what sort of hidden properties a wand core like nundu heartstring might possess.

The power of the wand made Hermione extremely nervous. For while dragon heartstring made for a powerful core, nundu heartstring was just as powerful, and was apparently known to sometimes have a mind of its own; it was far more unpredictable than any dragon heartstring core. The only reason she knew this was because the tribesman's grandson, Asha, was the only other person she knew who carried a wand of this same combination, though hers was 11 inches long and his had been 13. There had only been three ever made. Regardless, Hermione was insecure with her usage of it. It was no Elder Wand, not even close (thank Merlin – she didn't want that cursed wand anywhere near her), but it was able to channel extreme power, capable of both subtlety and what she liked to call "flash and bangs" magic.

Staring down at its smooth, polished form, she took the plunge and wrapped her hand around the end – the only "handle" was a slight swirling of the wood down at the bottom, designed to afford the user a better grip; not unlike Neville's and Ginny's wands had been. It hummed to life in her hand. Both Fawkeses cooed, and the one sitting on the floor with her ruffled his feathers. She swore she saw him smile.

"What do I do, though?" she said, biting her lip. She could feel her magic sink into the eye-catching wand, and could feel her own power more than ever before. "I'm about to go to class –" she said, looking up at the clock and finding that she had less than five minutes before Transfiguration started, "– and I don't even know what we're going to be doing. I've only ever done mundane magic with it before; easy things, just to test it out." Feeling brave, she cast a notice-me-not spell on herself. It took, but interestingly enough she felt a sort of…reluctance…from the wand. She stared down at it. "You aren't exactly amenable to going unnoticed, are you?" she asked it, feeling stupid for talking to a wand. It did not talk back, of course, but Fawkes ruffled his feathers again. The Fawkes inside of her pushed his own magic forth into her fingertips, and the wand vibrated as the fiery essence moved through it.

She looked again at Fawkes, and then to the wand, and then back to the phoenix. "So you think that I should forego my plan to try to be unnoticeable." Fawkes merely looked at her, but his eyes were laughing. She remembered Harry saying something one time, though she couldn't remember the context: "You're Hermione Granger – you don't do mediocre." She sighed. Pretending to be an average, unremarkable person would be torture. The urge to do things right, to do things well, was strong in her.

Nevertheless, Hermione placed the pink wand back in its protective casing and tossed it back in her bag. "Here's the deal," she said to Fawkes, crossing her arms and giving him a stern glare. "I won't go too far out of my way to be unnoticeable, but I'm not going to use that wand. Not yet, at least. I haven't used it enough to feel comfortable whipping it out in the middle of class around a bunch of students. So I'll keep using Bellatrix's wand for now, and I don't want to hear any complaints about it from you, all right?"

She pulled herself to her feet, purposefully ignoring what she would swear was mocking laughter in the wise black eyes of her phoenix friend. She tried summoning her wand from across the room again, and this time it rolled reluctantly across the floor and then hopped up into her hand with a tangible lack of enthusiasm. She sighed, and transfigured the hairbrush back into the bar of soap it had once been. It took her two tries before the magic did her bidding. She frowned but pocketed her wand, knowing she would have to come to terms with the fact that she would not be able to perform as well as usual.

But it was better for Riddle and the rest of the world to underestimate her, for now. It certainly couldn't hurt. And in her free time, she would practice with the pink ivory wand, and hope for the best.

oooo

Interestingly enough, the Granger girl entered the classroom just before Dumbledore's phoenix swooped into the room, promptly landing on its perch to the side of the old coot's desk. Tom noticed Dumbledore give her a peculiar look as she, keeping her curly head down, took her seat to the far right of the class, a small smirk playing across her face before it slipped back into neutrality. The phoenix watched her for a moment, chirped, and then looked away.

He had asked Mulciber to try to find out whatever he could about the girl, but Ambrose, who was one of his most trusted followers, hadn't been able to discern much – only that she was rather different than most of the other female students, was mostly well-liked, and had been through one hell of a war that had left her with many scars. It was too early. He would have to keep watching her. More than likely she was not a threat to him or to his plans; she was new here, after all – what could she possibly know? And while she had skill with a wand (or without a wand, rather), as he'd seen yesterday in the bathroom, she wouldn't be able to match him for power. He respected witches, but they weren't quite as powerful as wizards. And he'd never met a wizard more powerful than he. Grindewald and Dumbledore were the only real threats to him.

However, the recognition that had flashed in her eyes yesterday afternoon – the eyes that so unsettled him – gave him pause. He was probably being paranoid, but it never hurt to be cautious. He had too much at stake. It was impossible for her to know anything, but he would make sure he had a chance to get into her head to make sure.

"Good morning!"

Tom tuned Dumbledore out almost immediately, listening with only half an ear. Edmond Lestrange, who sat to his right, began to furiously scribble down notes; Edmond was very clever, and Tom appreciated that, but he did struggle with his grades some. He was not a good test-taker. Ambrose sat to his left, looking bored. Behind him, Nott and Rosier had their heads together and were whispering about something. Most likely a girl. Tom rolled his eyes. Nott was far more intelligent than Rosier, but they both had one thing in common: they were way too easily distracted by chasing skirts.

Tom had been practicing this particular spell every day for the past week, and, once he'd finally succeeded, he'd found that his horse's hind left leg was badly disfigured. Tom had immediately transfigured the stupid beast back into its original form, a knut.

The good thing was, nobody else had managed it either. Dumbledore was fond of challenging his students; it was the only thing Tom actually liked about the infuriating man. It was nice to have to put some thought into something. He was so used to everything being easy. Magic, knowledge, social interactions: it was all frighteningly simple. Every now and then Tom enjoyed a good struggle. So this, while irritating, was just another thing to overcome. And he would become the best at it. Because he was always the best. At everything. And that was not his ego talking – it was simply a fact.

He finally managed to be the first one in the class to transfigure his knut into a horse – a great big slate grey beast that was missing its tail and, once again, lame in the back leg. But it was a start. He smirked as everyone in the class oohed and aahed.

"Very good, Tom!" Dumbledore said in his obnoxiously cheery voice. "That's much better than last week. By next week, I'm sure it will be perfect." His eyes twinkled with suspicion. The Deputy Headmaster had never trusted Tom, and that grated on his nerves. He had been so sure that Dumbledore was somehow going to figure out that Tom had been responsible for Myrtle Warren's death nearly two years ago. There was no evidence, however, and Tom had banished the basilisk back to its chamber, not to reappear unless he wished it.

"Thank you Professor," he said, putting on his most charming smile. "I've been studying quite a bit the last few days."

"Excellent," the old man said, his smile just as smooth and as fake as Tom's. "Keep practicing."

Tom followed the man's trajectory to the other side of the classroom, where, much to his amusement, Hermione Granger sat at her desk next to Snowborn, her forehead pillowed on her arms. If not for the minute twitches to her hands and body, she could easily have been asleep.

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore said, laying a hand on her back. "Are you well?"

"Oh I'm fine, Professor," Hermione said smoothly. She gave him a smile, insincere only to those who made it their business to know how to read people.

Dumbledore smiled back at her. "Are you so accomplished in the art of transfiguration that you don't need to practice?" the professor asked, his tone very light, with undertones of amusement, and, strangely enough, suspicion. "You realize that participation is part of your grade."

Her eyes were full of laughter and scorn. She maintained her lovely, charming, artificial smile. "Of course, sir. So sorry. Perhaps I just didn't get enough rest last night."

Most of the class turned around to watch as she dropped her knut to the floor and pointed her dark crooked wand at it, muttering an incantation under her breath. Air swirled around the knut, and it transformed before his eyes. The horse that she had created was reddish-gold in color, but much smaller than it should have been. Three of its legs were twisted and stunted, and one of its eyes was abnormally large and glazed over with cataracts. It was in worse condition than Tom's had been in, and for some reason he sighed in relief, as if he had been afraid that she would best him.

Still, she had come close – closer than any of the other students. He would have to continue to keep an eye on her.

Dumbledore only inclined his head and then vanished the horse with a wave of his wand. "Very good, Miss Granger. Keep practicing. I'll expect your essay on how size and life forms affect the method of transfiguration on my desk by next period."

"Yes sir," she replied, smiling tightly but still looking at the professor with those strange eyes. Her wand had disappeared.

The rest of the class stared at her a little while longer as she nonchalantly took out her book and a sheet of parchment and began on her essay. Annoyingly, her eyes casually swept the room and her gaze washed right over him without a single hint of acknowledgement. Irritation bubbled in his chest, and then he was looking back to his own knut again, determined to practice harder.

It was only Transfiguration, he told himself. She was unlikely to be anywhere near as good as he was at Legilimency and Occlumency, if she even knew them at all, and she wouldn't be able to beat him in a duel, war or no war; that's what really mattered.

She was just a witch with pretty magic and an even prettier face. And besides, she had not expressed any interest in him just now, which was good, however annoying he found it; she was the first witch not to openly express interest in him. She was not concerned with him and his plans. She was here to go to school, get away from a war, and try to get her friend healed. And while she might be intriguing, yes, and apparently skillful with a wand, and however fascinated he might be with those eyes that held everything and nothing at the same time; well, she didn't matter, in the long run. None of it mattered. He had things to do; he just needed to get through this last year of school.

He turned back to his copper coin. With a shake of his head, she was out of his mind.