Thanks so much for all of your supportive reviews! I'm telling you, nothing spurs on updates quite like reviews.

That was a hint, in case you were wondering.

On to the show! Hermione's inner anger monster makes an appearance in this chapter. It might seem out of character, but trust me, she's not stable. As the story goes on, you'll get a deeper look into her psyche and exactly why she is the way she is. And don't worry, she doesn't just snap and become some monster all of a sudden. She just has a few dark moments every now and again (well, perhaps there's more darkness than light at this point, but let's not split hairs). Just believe me when I say that things will all come together in due time.

oooo

Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats. -H.L. Mencken

The idea that women are innately gentle is a fantasy, and a historically recent one. Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction, is depicted as wreathed in male human skulls; the cruel entertainments of the Romans drew audiences as female as they were male; Boudicca led her British troops bloodily into battle. –Naomi Wolf

No one wants to spend too long inside their own darkness. – Nick Nolte

oooo

Friday, December 1, 2000

Number 12 Grimmauld Place

"Hermione…" Harry begins, his voice hesitant. "That curse, Probilium…you know what kind of curse that is – what it can do to you. Why do you keep using it? Why do you travel the world searching for darkness? Why do you throw yourself into creating new spells, each worse than the last? What is all of this supposed to accomplish?"

She faces him, her eyes hard and hot. "We've already had this conversation, Harry. I know the risks, and I'm choosing to take them anyway. Do you understand, Harry, that this is the only way to beat them? Do you understand that they won't stop, that they will never stop, unless we show them the same misery that they have been inflicting upon us? We aren't in school anymore," she says darkly. "This is a higher form of war, and it's dark, and nasty, and NOBODY fucking prepared us for it, and I'm so BLOODY tired of it! I want these bastards dead and in the ground, Harry."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "I understand your anger – you know I do," he says, more softly this time. "But is it worth your soul? Is it worth this internal struggle? Why do you have to go about it this way, 'Mione?"

"BECAUSE I WANT THEM TO SUFFER, HARRY!" she shouts, angry tears running swiftly down her face. "I want them to feel pain, and I want them to know I was the one who caused it!"

Her best friend exhales through his nose, sighing. "I know, Hermione. Believe me, I know. Just…don't lose yourself to the darkness, all right? Mastering Bellatrix's wand, inventing all of these awful spells, seeing the revenge in your eyes every time you take a life. I can't bear the thought of getting through this eternal war only to have lost you somewhere along the way. I need you to stay the same, 'Mione, or at least be recognizable. Because if I survive this, I'm going to need you by my side, and I'm going to need you to be strong."

She sits heavily in an armchair, energy suddenly drained. "I know Harry, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," she whispers. "I want to be strong for you. I will be strong for you, alright?" She grabs his hand and squeezes, and he squeezes back. "Don't worry," she assures him. "I'll keep a lid on it, I promise. I won't let it go too far. We'll get through this together, all right?"

He smiles at her, his eyes gentle. "Yeah. Hey listen, do you want some coffee? Charlie just brought in a new shipment, it's supposed to be pretty good stuff."

She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. If he notices it then he does not comment, but she doubts it has slipped by him. Harry knows her better than anyone, and is much more perceptive than he used to be. "Of course, Harry, that sounds great. A touch of cream, no sugar, you know how I like it."

He grins and walks out of the room and down the stairs towards the kitchen. "Of course I do, Hermione. We have no secrets anymore, remember?"

When he is gone, the smile melts from her face. She closes her eyes.

But she does still have secrets. She does not tell him that the darkness has already taken hold.

oooo

Tom was successful in his plan not to think about the Granger girl – for all of four days. She hadn't attended classes on Thursday afternoon or Friday, and he hadn't seen her at all on the weekend so she had effectively slipped his mind; but like an unsightly wart she popped up again in his life and in his mind the next Monday, and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since. Bloody woman.

It was now Wednesday, and she was walking down to the edge of the lake, apparently for their shared Care of Magical Creatures class. She walked confidently but gracefully, her hair flouncing as she took the stairs at a surprisingly fast speed for someone who assumedly hadn't taken them before; she was very agile. He immediately looked elsewhere and pushed her from his mind.

Silvanus Kettleburn was still the Care of Magical Creatures professor. He was always far too energetic for Tom's taste; he had great enthusiasm for his subject and the students who took it. Handsome and unaware of the fact, he was completely oblivious to how many of the girls in the class fluttered their eyelashes at him and tittered at his inane jokes, despite being nearly 20 years younger than him. Though Tom was not prone to public displays of emotion, he felt the constant urge to roll his eyes at the spectacle.

He only took this class because he wanted to be the first person since Albus Dumbledore to take eleven N.E.W.T.s. He could have taken twelve, but Divination was something that he had taken for six years – he felt no reason to waste his time on a seventh.

They were studying Red Caps again. They were interesting little creatures, but Tom had already read up on them and didn't feel the need to know more. He was sitting on the grass (Kettleburn liked to hold his classes outside) with his book open, pretending to follow along as his mind wandered to more important things, when he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

Fawkes the phoenix, once again a colorful, irritating distraction, had landed on a low branch of a tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He was too far away from Tom for him to see what the bird was doing, but he was facing the group of students spread out on the grass.

Tom, who was sitting behind and to the right of Hermione Granger, saw her head imperceptibly turn towards the bird. He saw the smallest of smiles play across her face, and that's when he just knew that there was something more to her. And it had something to do with that phoenix. His suspicions were confirmed when Fawkes took off into the Forbidden Forest after class finished; Tom took his time packing all of his things away, subtly watching her speak briefly to the professor about something – she laughed at something he said, and Tom's eyes narrowed.

Walking up to the stones that lined the stairs up to the castle, he moved purposefully slowly; then he watched as Kettleburn turned away to gather his materials and Hermione moved silently and swiftly, as graceful as a cat, into the trees of the Forbidden Forest. She was swallowed up by the darkness.

He physically labored to dispel the urge to go after her. He watched the trees with eyes like a hawk. He turned around – Mulciber and Lestrange, who were in all of his elective and advanced classes, looked from him to the trees where the slip of a girl had disappeared.

His eyes narrowed. "Follow her," he said lowly. "Don't get caught. And then report back to me before dinner."

The two boys were off like a shot, wands in hand. He watched them enter the Forbidden Forest, waited around for a few seconds, and then continued his ascent up the stairs. He had some research to do about phoenixes.

oooo

After spending a few minutes practicing with the pink ivory wand – and getting used to the effect Fawkes had on her magic – Hermione saw the physical manifestation of Fawkes look up from where he'd been dozing. He jumped from his branch and soared through the trees, gone from her sight. The Fawkes inside her had gone very still, withdrawing his presence from her fingertips back into her ribcage.

Cocking her head, she listened. A single twig snapped. Whoever, or whatever, was stalking her was very good; but Hermione, with years of being both the hunted and the hunter, was better. Quickly and as quietly as possible, she scrambled up into a heap of massive roots, hiding her body within them and peering over the edge. She tried not to think about what else might be hiding in those roots – but if it were anything bad, Fawkes would have warned her.

The two boys that came into the clearing with their wands drawn were Tom Riddle's cronies: Ambrose Mulciber and Edmond Lestrange. She knew this because she had made sure to get all of their names and faces into her head and put them all in a mental file labeled WARNING: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS.

She watched them carefully as they looked about before beginning to pass through the clearing. Then, with Fawkes' hum of approval, she revealed herself, standing up on top of the giant root she'd been hiding behind. They didn't see her at first, as they were both looking in the other direction. She couldn't help the patronizing smile that graced her lips.

She cleared her throat and they both whirled around, pointing their wands at her. She sighed, crossing her arms, tapping the tip of her own wand against her hip. They stared at her, unsure of what to do.

"I do hope that your Lord won't be too disappointed in you," she drawled, standing a still as a statue. She felt the dark, bitter side of her personality – the part of her that came out to play when encountered with Death Eaters – rise up within her. She did not try to stop it; by now, it was as natural as breathing. "I know that his punishment can be rather…harsh." She ran her lips over her teeth.

When she looked into Edmond Lestrange's face, all she could see was his nephews' eyes staring down at her as she writhed under their torture. She knew Edmond was neither of his nephews – in fact, Hermione didn't really know anything about Edmond Lestrange. His eyes were dark, his skin sallow and pale, his body nothing like his companion's; he was small and thin, and, she imagined, very quick. His eyes were clever. But, wisely, she saw them flash in fear. Definitely not stupid, then. She smiled at him. He did not smile back, but licked his lips nervously.

Quick as lightning, she slashed out with her wand and disarmed and stunned him in four seconds, amazed but not surprised at how well her rightful wand responded to her offensive magic. Mulciber was quick enough to deflect her stunning spell as she turned on him – she smiled, pleased that she at least had something of a challenge – but his friend's form crumpled to the ground, out cold. Hermione didn't spare him a glance, her predatory gaze fixed on her remaining opponent.

He was sneering at her. Of average height and average build, with a fit physique and tan skin, Ambrose Mulciber, who looked so like his son, stared at her with flat green eyes.

She paced in front of him. She could almost smell the blood. She clenched her wand tighter, reminding herself that she could no longer kill at will here. The heavy beating of her heart pounded blood and oxygen through her body. The thrill of battle…well, she would always be a warrior. And now that she was in a peaceful place, she was craving it. Craving this.

Once again, she smiled at him. "I like your hero hair," she said teasingly, referring to the swoop of light brown hair that was pushed back from his forehead. "Did Tom teach you how to style it like that? It looks nice."

He shot a spell at her. She deflected it easily, but whistled. "Nonverbal magic, in someone so young and inexperienced," she purred tauntingly, looking at him from under her eyelashes. "I'm very impressed."

"I'll show you young and inexperienced," he snarled, flinging another curse at her, and then another.

She smirked, dodging one and repelling another. "I'm positively quivering with fear," she snarked. Then, without warning, she flung three spells in quick succession his way, and his shields fell before her, effectively battered with the force of her magic. With a quick, wordless Expelliarmus, his wand was in her hand alongside Edmond's.

She had never seen such a comically shocked expression on anyone's face before; it was priceless. She laughed at his expense. He looked ready to charge her, and with a flick she rendered his arms and legs immobile, as if stuck in stone. She merely stood watching him, giving him time to try to get free. It took thirty seconds before he realized that he was going absolutely nowhere, and that she was standing, like a stone, before him. She regarded him coolly.

"Ambrose Mulciber," she said, stroking a line down his face with the tip of her wand. His earlier bravado was long gone – he was sweating. Slytherins were only as brave as their magic was powerful. As soon as they were defeated, the smart ones switched tactics. And from what she could see, Ambrose was very smart. He was pale, his eyes calculating his odds, but he didn't say a word.

"I knew your son, you know," she said, once again pacing in front of him. "Quite well, actually. He was handsome, like you. He wasn't as smart as you supposedly are, though." She gave him a chilling smile, and put her mouth to his ear. "I killed him," she whispered. She pulled back to look him in the eye; he looked equal parts terrified, confused and angry. "Killed by a worthless, filthy Mudblood," she intoned. "Over some stupid mistake." She snapped back to herself, having briefly lost herself in the memory of Mulciber Junior's capture and subsequent death. There may have been a little torture thrown in there, as well. He had died with her name on his lips.

This Mulciber remained unyielding, but sweat pored down his temples and he looked like he was about to throw up.

"There are certain things that I would like to know about you and your Lord Voldemort," she hissed, her eyes narrowing. A pair of familiar crimson eyes flashed across her mind's eye. "I already know quite a bit, you see, but it never hurts to get the full scoop. Any information is good information, right?" He looked at her blankly, but he could not keep the contempt from his eyes. There was fear there, too, though; plenty of fear. "Should I torture it out of you?" she asked sweetly, cocking her head. "Or I could place you under the Imperius curse, and get you to walk right up to your Lord in the Great Hall and stab him in his miserable, disgusting, scaly face."

Mulciber looked horrified at the prospect. She laughed. "Alas, that's not really how I like to go about things," she said, waving her hand. "Plus, his face these days is far too handsome to carve up; such a waste. When he dies, it will be by my hand. But it can't be too wild – I wouldn't want to mess up the timeline too badly. I could end up knocking myself out of existence," she said casually, buffing her nails on her shirt.

"Merlin, witch, just do something already!" Mulciber suddenly shouted, looking utterly mad. "You're, what, a time traveler or something? What are you waiting for? Do whatever it is you came to do!" He panted. "There isn't anything you haven't done that Tom Riddle hasn't already done himself."

She chuckled. "Oh Ambrose, but when you torture someone with an Unforgiveable, you have to really mean it," she said lightly. "For all of his huffing and puffing and cold, evil soul, Tom Riddle doesn't have a reason to make it hurt. He doesn't hate you, so his compulsion isn't strong enough. You have to really feel the anger, feel the hate." She felt her heart turn to stone. "Like so. Crucio."

Darkness surged up within her as she gave Ambrose Mulciber, Sr., a taste of what his son and his friends had inflicted upon her for so long. She thought of Bellatrix's sneering visage, the rotted teeth and rancid breath puffing over Hermione's face as she wept and wept and wept, screamed and screamed and screamed. She thought of Ron.

It was interesting – Fawkes' essence, while she could still feel it burning low in her stomach, did not interfere with her torture. He seemed content to sleep deep within her soul as her inevitable darkness came out to play. Unfortunately, after having killed so many and after having used the Haitian Probilium curse four times now, she had irreversibly tainted her soul. She could not bring herself to fully regret it.

She counted to sixty (it was a very slow sixty) and then released the young man from the clutches of her curse. He sagged in relief. "Now," she said clinically, "was that better or worse than Riddle's torture? Come now, be honest. I promise not to hurt you if you tell the truth."

"Worse," he panted, his eyes squeezing shut. His cheeks were covered in tears. Taking the sleeve of her robe, she gently wiped his face.

"See? Now, when Riddle tortures you to teach you a lesson, you can always think about how it could be worse," she said matter-of-factly. She continued to wipe the tears and snot from his face. He was in too much pain to be humiliated by it.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quivering.

She laughed, delighted. "You're very welcome!" she said, twirling around. She rubbed his cheek with her thumb. "So polite!"

His cold, flat eyes, the color of green olives, were not so flat anymore. He looked at her, terrified. She wondered, as cold amusement surged through her, if she had gone a little bit mad.

"Since you've been such a lovely, willing participant today, Ambrose, I won't torture you anymore or do anything terrible," she promised. "I just need to grab a little something from your head, first," she finished, coming up to him and holding his head between her hands. She looked into his eyes. "Sorry about this. Legilimens."

It took her five minutes or so to get past his walls, which weren't bad for a seventeen-year-old boy; but they were no match for her mind, and weak from the strain of being held under the Cruciatus curse. She flicked through his mind quickly, knowing she only had minutes before Riddle got suspicious and came looking for them. Most of it was stuff she already knew from her own experience with Voldemort and his horcruxes and looking through Harry's memories. But it allowed her to get a better sense of the boy, not the monster. He was well on his way to becoming that monster, especially since he already had two horcruxes, but he hadn't fully transitioned yet. And while his power surpassed hers, even with the addition of Fawkes'…whatever it was…that she now had, he still had a lot more to learn.

And this would show her exactly what he hadn't learned. Or some of it, anyway. Hermione didn't doubt that Riddle wasn't exactly totally forthcoming to his little minions. She was sure that there was a lot that they didn't know.

When she was finished with Mulciber, leaving him trapped in her invisible cocoon, she went over to Lestrange's prone form; apparently Tom Riddle had not cracked the code to Occlumency while unconscious. That was rather important, if you asked her; although it was generally unsafe to enter the mind of the unconscious. Most people tended to get lost. Hermione Granger was not most people. She slid into his mind with ease, completely focused.

When she was finished, she stood and walked back over to Mulciber, patting him on the cheek. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity," she said, staring into his eyes that were now full of fury, humiliation and still fear. "But I can't have you going around spilling all my secrets, can I?" She wrinkled her nose. "No, that won't do. So, once again, I'm so sorry about this, really, I am…"

Pressing her bright wand to his temple, she smiled.

"Obliviate."

oooo

Before dinner, Tom hung out in his old common room; now that he was Head Boy he had a suite of his own, just down the hall from the kitchens and Hufflepuff dorms. He waited and waited, and waited and waited for Ambrose and Lestrange to get back. He waited for just over an hour. The dinner hour was fast approaching. Irritated, he stood; his remaining minions, Antonin Dolohov and Conan Avery, both sixth years, and Thoros Nott and Gavin Rosier, both seventh years like him, stood with him. He waved them off, just as Mulciber and Lestrange came through the door.

They were both a little rumpled, and each carried a basket of blue flowers – perilialis, if he was correct, as beautiful as they were hard to find. They set the baskets on the floor in front of him, bowed their heads respectably, and waited.

"What are these?" he said slowly, as patiently as he could manage.

They both looked up at him, confused. "Is this not the right kind of flower, My Lord?" Mulciber said, looking nervous. Tom peered at him curiously; he was shaking, and a thin streak of dried drool marred his face at the corner of his mouth. "I thought you said perilialis, for your potion."

"What potion?" Tom said, his fury slowly mounting.

"Um, well, the uh…" Lestrange stumbled over his words, looking terrified. "The one that helps with the after effects of torture, My Lord," he said quickly. "Although I'm not sure why you need it – I hope you don't think that we want it, My Lord, because we are all proud to –"

"Hush." Edmond stopped speaking immediately. Tom looked deep into his favorite minions' eyes, brown and green, and snarled. There was nothing there – no recognition of the task he had given them, no joking or anything like that (as if they would dare), just blind, flat obedience.

He lurched forward and grabbed Mulciber by the ears. "Legilimens!" he snarled, and he soared into his subordinate's mind like slicing through butter.

It was all a jumbled mess at first, but then he was able to get his bearings and navigate: he watched on in horror as his two minions traipsed through the Forbidden Forest, talking incessantly as they looked for the magical blue flowers that were notorious for being elusive. When he got back to the memory of the three of them together on the path, he watched as his memory self ordered them to go find as many of those flowers as they could, that he needed them for a potion. Then he got to a memory that was farther out, contained in a dark box: it was just full of pain.

He jerked himself out of Mulciber's mind; whom, he noticed, looked like he was about to fall over. Lestrange made sure to put an arm around him, holding him up as Mulciber's knees buckled.

"I'm sorry, My Lord," Mulciber said, his eyes twitching and his body shaking with severe tremors. "I hope we didn't…didn't disappoint you…"

He passed out.

Tom recognized that after effects of the Cruciatus curse well enough – he'd used it enough times on his own followers and enemies that he was familiar with it. However, Mulciber was his most stoic follower, good about receiving pain and being gracious about it. Ambrose and Edmond, as well as Thoros, were his favorites because a) they were smarter than most of the people in this school, and b) they followed him because they wanted to, not because they were afraid of him or just thought that his little group was a cool "club" to be in that would elevate them to the top. They were the only ones privy to all of his plans – excluding the horcruxes, of course. That would be his little secret.

But the fact that Mulciber was a walking and talking zombie with drool – drool! – on his face was not comforting. His mind immediately flashed to the girl. Had she done this? Had she dueled them, tortured them and then Obliviated them, only to send them back here to taunt him with the idea of a potion meant to soothe the nerves after the Cruciatus curse?

Surely not. He rifled through his head for any other enemies that might want to cause him harm. There were a number of people at school that were wary of him and outright didn't like him, but they were few and far between, and there were none that were capable of this kind of stunt. And Dumbledore would never go so far as to willingly harm a student. It had to have been Granger; but the vision of her sweet features, all high cheekbones and bowed lips and heart-shaped face, contorted into the snarl of the Cruciatus…

But then again, those eyes…those eyes. They were full of secrets. Of private laughter and scorn. They were cold sometimes, blazing hot the next, flashing with a series of colors that had him transfixed like a common boy. Those eyes hid something great, something terrible; he just hadn't put his finger on it yet. And yet he was still reluctant to believe that two of his best followers had been so dismantled by a girl. As he'd watched her in classes, there had been nothing to indicate that she was capable enough of beating two of his Knights; she was a decent student, to be sure, but her casting was often less than impressive.

He looked at Lestrange, who looked simultaneously confused and terrified. "I'll speak with you later tonight," he said darkly. "For now, get Ambrose to bed and give him some of these flowers to chew on," he said, shoving one of the baskets into Edmond's jittery hands. "It'll help with his nerves. After that, you can come down to dinner." He looked around at his followers, who were all looking between Mulciber and him in confusion. "I'm going to supper, and then to the library – you're welcome to join me in the Great Hall, but from there I go on alone. Edmond alone will stay up until I get back."

Edmond gulped, looking sweaty and pale, but he didn't give a word of protest. Without another word, Tom strode out of the common room, his followers no doubt hot on his heels.

When he got up to the Great Hall, his eyes immediately sought her out. Part of him hated himself for it; part of him wanted answers. He found her immediately, over by the Ravenclaw table talking to Bertha Higgs about something or other. She did not look up as he entered, nor as he walked slowly to his table. Only when he sat down and reached for his napkin did he feel her eyes on him.

Her gaze washed over him like something cold and slick. He held her eyes and made sure she could see the anger in his expression; she didn't miss it. Most people looked away, pale, when faced with the intensity of his stare. Most people.

A cat-like smile curved on her fine lips. Her eyes shifted, and he would swear they swirled with crimson before returning to their usual enigmatic brown. Something heavy and acidic and terrible manifested in the pit of his gut; something that filled his chest with icy tendrils of dread. Her smile was positively vicious, sultry and enticing in its darkness. Like a cat teasing the mouse that was already caught under its paw.

She looked at him one more time, flashed him a wink that was so subtle that he wasn't sure it had actually happened, and then walked away towards her own table, wiggling her fingers at Higgs, who waved back. She did not spare him another glance all throughout dinner.

oooo

Hermione didn't have an evening class, so she walked up to the first floor, intending on visiting Draco in the hospital wing. She cast another featherweight charm on her bag, as her first one was beginning to wear off; now that she'd begun to practice with her African wand, she was becoming even more frustrated with her walnut one. She still wasn't ready, though. She didn't know if she ever would be; that wand was terrifying in its intensity. Plus, now that Riddle suspected her of that little business in the forest – foolish, on her part, but she hadn't really thought it through, she'd just been so angry – she didn't need to give him another excuse to study her. Shiny pink wands would do that.

She simply smiled and nodded at Madam Soranus at the front desk and then continued on to Draco's bed, closer to the back windows. She pulled the curtain around his bed part way closed before she sat down in the chair next to him.

She took his cold, pale hand in her own before she spoke, her voice quiet. "I did something stupid today," she said, bringing his hand up to her cheek and closing her eyes. "I started practicing with the African wand. Fawkes insisted, you know? And then I got so caught up in it that I accidentally…well, overreacted with a couple of our new Death Eater friends." She snorted in irritation and amusement. "Bloody bird." She ignored the sudden press of heat against her heart. "The wand is fantastic, Draco. It's just so powerful. It has perfect aim, perfect balance, and it does whatever I need it to just how I like it. And it's as sensitive to wandless magic as anyone could ever hope for." She paused, swallowing, and brought his hand down to her lap. "But I can feel the power racing through my veins when I use it. Don't get me wrong, having power to keep me safe from Tom Riddle while I'm here, especially with Fawkes' help, is better than being significantly weaker than him, and with how Bellatrix's wand is responding to me, I am extremely vulnerable. I know that. But I don't want that power to get to my head, Draco." She took a heavy breath. "I've seen how power corrupts. I've felt it. I promised Harry that I wouldn't lose myself to the darkness."

She tried and failed to ignore the little voice in her head that told her that Harry wasn't here, and that, with Draco as he was, she was essentially on her own. Even after Draco woke up, how long would it be before he succumbed to Bellatrix's curse? No, she was alone. And she would have to do what she must to survive.

She squeezed Draco's hand. "You'd think Fawkes would be disapproving of my use of Dark magic today," she continued conversationally. Fawkes' essence purred within her chest. "But he just waited, watched, did nothing to stop me or to support me. He seemed not to care how I went about things…just that I got what I wanted. Strange, right? I thought phoenixes were creatures of great morality and Light magic. I figured the Cruciatus curse wouldn't sit well with him, but it felt just as right, and just as natural, as it always has. Or at least, as it has for the last couple of years."

Her eyes filled with hot tears as she thought of the darkness that had taken a foothold in her soul after Ron's death and her time in the clutches of Voldemort's most loyal followers. They had scarred her, ruined the pureness of her intentions and the morality that had once made her better than them. It was what had set her apart. They had not taken everything from her – she would never be just like them, at least – but they had dirtied her innocence with their filth, and she would never be the same. Vengeance had taken the spot in her heart where justice had once lived.

She let the tears fall. "I wish you were here, Draco," she said, not bothering to swipe at the salty tracks on her cheeks. She clutched his hand tighter in her lap. Pain and fear gripped her heart…but above all, she felt anger. She could have had a normal life. She could have lived in peace, finished her education at Hogwarts, gone on to get a Ministry job where she might have made a difference. She could have never had to spill a single drop of blood.

And Voldemort had wrecked that, trampled through her life like the foul, evil thing he was. He was the reason that Ron was dead. He was the reason that Draco sat here on a hospital bed, just waiting to die. He was the reason that darkness had seeped into her soul, damaging it forever.

She took great shuddering breaths, trying to calm herself. Staring at the smooth, peaceful plains of Draco's bruised face, still faultlessly handsome, she gritted her teeth. She leaned close to him, hovering her face next to his ear as Fawkes' power mixed with the anger and darkness at the heart of her magic. She felt the heat of it surge into her skin and her eyes, travel down to the very tips of her toenails. Her breath felt hot against her lips.

"I'm going to make him regret the day he ever thought to fuck up our lives," she breathed against her friend's ear. "I'm going to make him rue the day that he ever laid eyes on me. And I'm going to do it with a smile on my face. I promise," she said, pressing her hot lips to his forehead. "I swear it. No matter what it takes."

Harry's voice reverberated throughout her skull. Just don't lose yourself to the darkness, all right? I need you to be strong, 'Mione.

She rolled her eyes up to the sky, her face still wet with tears. "I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Then she stood, squeezed Draco's hand one last time, and then left in a flurry of dark robes that Snape would have very much approved of.

She smiled, thinking of her old professor. "Don't worry, Severus," she muttered on her way out. "I'll avenge you, too."

She burst through the hospital doors, glowering into the darkness. Fawkes' spirit, bathed in the mingled light and darkness of her soul, hummed contentedly within her chest.

oooo

So there it is. Hermione's dark side has officially come out to play. And Fawkes' odd tolerance of Dark magic will be explained later on in the story. But like I said at the beginning of the chapter, Hermione isn't suddenly some completely crazy hell-angel. She's had a moment of anger and weakness, and she's beginning to understand that she's kind of on her own, and she just has to power through and do things as best she can. And that means maybe having to get her hands dirty a bit and not play by the rules. And yeah, she's mad. Doesn't have a whole lot of reasons to be happy, our Hermione.

Anyways, keep hanging in there. Don't give up on me. Next chapter is my favorite so far. I like writing Hermione and Tom together. Dialogue between them is fun.