Just for the record, the English use the Celsius system rather than the Farenheit system. So when I say it's down below 2 degrees, I'm talking about Celsius, so that means that it's down to about 35 degrees Farenheit. Just trying to keep things as consistent as possible, seeing as consistency isn't my greatest strength and I'm trying to work on it.
Once again, thank y'all so much for reviewing my shit. It means a lot, and it keeps me writing. I appreciate it.
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A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends. -Baltasar Gracian, The Art of Worldly Wisdom
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them - George Eliot
Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of the two everlasting empires, necessity and free will. -Thomas Carlyle
War does not determine who is right – only who is left. –Bertrand Russell
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Tuesday, November 16, 1999
Number 12 Grimmauld Place
She wakes for the first time after the ordeal sometime in the early morning. Birds sing cheerily outside, and though the sun has not yet come up, the sky steadily changes from a midnight blue to the lovely indigo of impending dawn. Grabbing the blanket from her bed, she wraps it around her pajama-clad form – and briefly wonders who helped her change her clothes, because she cannot quite remember.
But she remembers what came before very clearly.
Not daring to close her eyes for fear of what she might see etched onto the back of her eyelids, she clears her mind, focusing on the familiar smell of coffee, and heads down the stairs with jerky movements, avoiding the creaky steps, loathe to wake her housemates.
She doesn't really want to see them right now.
Nonetheless, she hears a soft noise from the kitchen. But there is only one person who is ever awake this early, and somehow the thought of seeing him brings her relief; for Hermione knows he is the only one who will never show her pity. He is probably the only person in the world that has never lied to her, which has been both somewhat detrimental to their friendship and yet somehow its saving grace. Because of this mutually honest rapport, they know that they can each count on the other to always be consistent. And right now, Hermione needs consistency more than anything.
She slowly pushes the swinging kitchen door open, standing uncertainly in the threshold. She shifts her feet. Her legs are still unsteady from two months of daily torture.
Draco Malfoy turns, his expression as unreadable as ever, and holds up a pot of coffee for her perusal. "Coffee?" he murmurs, his voice still heavy with sleep. He begins pouring her a cup even before she nods her head yes. He tops it off with a bit of cream, no sugar, and offers it to her with an outstretched hand, demanding that she shuffle over to take it from him.
Another thing about Draco that she appreciates: he is never an enabler.
And he knows how she likes her coffee.
He stands there for a moment, sipping his own cup, impeccably dressed as usual, before sliding open the glass door to the small porch in the back yard. He motions with his head for her to follow him and, still silent as the grave, she does.
Her movements are robotic when she sits down on the swinging bench, and her blond companion, in an uncharacteristic show of tender concern, helps tuck her blanket more securely around her shoulders. As he sits down beside her with an innate grace that she will never be able to emulate, she draws her knees up to her chest. He uses his feet to get the swing moving, and they sit there for an indeterminable amount of time, listening to the soothing sounds of dawn.
It is not until the sky fades from indigo to pink that Draco puts his arm around her to bring her closer, and she realizes with a sort of detachment that her face is drenched with salty tears, and they run unchecked down her throat to soak through the neck of her sleep shirt. She realizes that it had once been Ron's, before she'd stolen it from him with the argument that it was getting too ratty to wear out in public. In all honesty, she'd just wanted something to wear that smelled like him.
An unexpected knot of feeling gets lodged in her throat, choking her, before it escapes her mouth in a strangled sob. She begins to cry so hard that she no longer makes any noise, other than shallow, hiccupping breaths and a sort of uncomfortable, high pitched whine. Her entire torso shakes with the stark physicality of her sobs. She pitches sideways, sliding down into Draco's lap. He strokes her hair back from her face as her tears and snot soak through the leg of his fine grey trousers.
He does not "ssh" her, nor does he offer platitudes that many people use to make one another feel better. He does not speak at all, does not even hum or clear his throat or sneeze or swallow. He is just silent, one hand pressing firmly against her shoulder while the other rests on her head, his thumb rubbing in a steady, soothing rhythm over the soft hair at her temple.
Minutes or hours or days later, she doesn't know, her eyes begin to dry and her cries quiet and the only things left are the soft sniffs of her runny nose and the slight quiver of her chin.
Mid-November is unusually cold this year, already down to below two degrees, and the chill drives them back inside. They run into Pansy at the bottom of the stairs, and after the dark-haired girl makes her own cup of coffee, she accompanies the two back upstairs to Hermione's bedroom. The three of them crawl into bed, each with a different book.
They stay there for the rest of the day. They are only interrupted twice: once by Narcissa Malfoy, who brings in a large tray of brunch items for the three unlikely companions, and later by Harry, who comes in and sits on the floor on Hermione's side of the bed. He does not read, or eat – only sits; and Hermione reaches down and lays a hand on his shoulder. He lays his opposite hand over hers, his palm warm against her wrist, and cries the still, silent tears of a man lost.
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Hermione pushed Draco in his wheelchair to the hallway in front of the Great Hall, and then helped him out of his wheelchair – in all honesty, he didn't seem to really need her help. He was unsteady and a little weak, but not an invalid. So she merely walked with her hand around his elbow and opened the doors for him.
Upon entering, a hush fell over the student body. Whispers pervaded the room as she walked Draco down the stairs and towards the Gryffindor table. He held his head high, adopting his most regal "Heir of the Houses of Malfoy and Black" pose, and she stifled a giggle. He reached over and pinched her forearm, well aware that she was laughing at his expense.
Like the fine young men they were, Ignatius and Lyall stood upon their approach and made room for the two of them on the side of the table that would put their backs to the wall. Lyall grabbed Draco's other arm to steady him as he swung his leg over the bench, much to Draco's irritation. Draco hated needing assistance of any kind, especially from people he didn't know.
They sat down, conscious of all the stares they were getting but ignoring them anyway, and plates appeared before them. Draco nearly groaned in relief. "Oh thank Merlin for food," he said, spooning a heap of mash potatoes onto his plate.
"Don't overdo it, Mister Mallery," Sabrina said from across the table, effectively catching his attention. How he had not noticed her before, Hermione did not know, but she smiled as he suddenly became aware of not just Sabrina, but a whole other host of pretty women that were staring at him in rapture. "You've been getting nutrition through magical means for the last week and a half, and too much real food might not sit well. Try to take it easy."
Draco smiled at her. "I'll keep that in mind, Miss…?"
"Snowborn," she said, reaching her hand over the table. "You can call me Sabrina."
He took her hand, turned it, and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. To Sabrina's credit, the blush that suffused her cheeks was light and gone as quick as it had come. "It's a pleasure, Sabrina. Please, call me Draco."
Hermione nudged him. "Sabrina was my first friend here, Draco," she said, smiling at the pretty brunette. "She showed me around. These are Lyall Lupin and Ignatius Prewett," she continued, motioning to the two men that bracketed Hermione and Draco. "Don't trust them with anything, they're total troublemakers. A lot like the twins were," she said, her tone a tad wistful.
Draco grinned at her. "Sounds like a party." He shook both of their hands as they grumbled about Hermione's unfair description of them but smiled back at them nonetheless, humor and mischief in their eyes.
"This is Kat Agory," Hermione continued, gesturing to Kat, who sat across the table next to Sabrina. She tried hard not to let her eyes wander to the little burn on the side of the girl's neck. Kat shook his hand firmly. "And Zuri Rubright," she said, gesturing to the girl of Indian descent, "and, of course, Iris Fawley."
If Draco was stunned by Iris' beauty, he did not let on. In fact, his eyes kept wandering past Sabrina more often than not. Of course, only Hermione noticed, simply because she knew him, and knew him well.
She even knew about his fear of snakes…though she'd never bring it up. As a Slytherin, he would be mortified if anyone knew of his aversion to the mascot of his own house. So she would continue to let him operate under the delusion that his particular fear was private.
"It's so nice to finally meet you," Iris gushed, seemingly put out when he did not kiss her hand like he had Sabrina's. Truthfully, he was too far away to do so comfortably. Still, she hid her disappointment better than a flake like Lavender Brown would have. "We've heard a lot about your and Hermione's adventures in China. We've all been so anxious for you to wake up so we could meet you. How are you feeling?"
Draco shrugged. "I've definitely been better, but it's not as bad as I thought it would be." Hermione had told him that she hadn't revealed the dire state of his health to anyone except Tom Riddle in a display of epic weakness, so he did not mention it. Undoubtedly Tom or one of the teachers would let it leak eventually; the rumor mill at Hogwarts did not only exist within the student body – it extended to the staff as well. But for now, they decided not to draw too much attention to his grim diagnosis. "I'm glad for the anomaly in space that granted our travel here to Hogwarts; I doubt I would be alive if it weren't for the efforts of Madam Soranus and the rest of the staff. I'm thankful to be in a safe place; and I'm grateful to all of you for making Hermione feel welcome. She's told me all about each of you and how wonderful you've been to her."
They all look pleased and bashful at the praise. Sabrina flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Well, it's not as if Hermione is a burden or anything. We've found that we quite enjoy her company."
"And people from other houses apparently feel the same way," Zuri mused, looking back sideways towards the entry doors. "Head Boy, Hermione, coming your way."
Hermione froze, feeling her heart skitter. She took a sip of water from her flask and turned away from the direction of the door to lean in towards Draco. She got her mouth next to his ear and spoke lowly so that no one else could hear. "And here we go. The fun begins."
She turned back toward the table and smiled mildly, noting the various looks on her housemates' faces. Some of them were looking at Draco, some at Hermione, and some were turned towards the direction of the doors, where she knew Tom Riddle was coming ever closer. She purposefully remained facing forward, taking another sip of water and smiling tightly at Sabrina, who was looking from Hermione to Draco with thinly veined speculation.
"Hermione."
Iris, though usually far more calm and collected than say, Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil, looked like she was going to hyperventilate. Hermione slowly twisted her torso to see Tom, Edmond and Avery standing behind them.
"Tom," she said, pasting a courteous smile onto her face even as her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribcage. "How are you this evening?"
"I'm well," he replied, his lips quirking at the forced politeness in her tone. "And you?"
She shrugged. "I'm well, as well," she said, smirking. Her gaze slid over to Edmond. "Hello, Lestrange." The slim, dark boy nodded at her, his eyes flashing with uneasiness. She could not help the thrill she felt knowing that he was afraid of her. "Hello, Avery," she said, looking at Conan. She gave him a small, secret smile that he returned. "How are you holding up since this morning?"
Conan shrugged. "I think I'll manage," he said dryly, his lips quirking. "How's your hand?"
Tom reached forward as if on cue, and, as if by habit, Hermione laid her right hand in his without pause. He peeled back the fresh gauze and frowned. "This doesn't look any better, Hermione."
"It's been less than twelve hours, Tom," she replied, amused with his show of concern. "I'll live, I promise you. It'll be all healed up within a couple of weeks." She removed her hand from his and reattached the gauze. "It was caused by Dark magic, not boiling water," she said teasingly. "It's not going to just go away that easily."
She could tell by the look in his eyes that he desperately wanted to know just what sort of spell it had been and how he could replicate it. "Indeed. Now, Hermione, I've spent a week just itching to meet your friend, and it's just positively rude of you not to introduce me," he said in a teasing sort of imperious tone. He looked over to Draco. "Tom Riddle," he said smoothly, holding his hand out.
Draco stood – more swiftly than Hermione would have thought possible in his condition – and shook the other man's hand firmly. Hermione could not help but notice that Tom was about an inch taller than Draco.
"Draco Mallery – it's a pleasure," he returned, his voice a silky, sultry drawl that had Riddle's jaw ticking. It was the tone Slytherins sometimes took with their enemies, and it obviously resonated with Tom. Hermione was equal parts nervous and proud of her best friend. Draco sure did have a skill for subtlety and manipulation, and it had not gone unrecognized by the Heir of Slytherin.
Their clasped hands withdrew from each other and Draco turned and sat back down. Hermione noticed how his legs shook a bit before becoming steady again. She knew she was probably not the only one who noticed.
She looked up, and was once again trapped in the clear, cold depths of Tom Riddle's eyes. "Draco should be up for coming to classes next week, so I'm sure you'll have more of a chance to get to know each other then."
"I look forward to it," Draco said, still twisted slightly in his seat, watching them from his peripheral vision.
"As do I," Tom said, his voice smooth and pleasant and just a bit tight to Hermione's keen ears. He stared down into her eyes, looming over her from his standing position. "Hermione." He absently took her uninjured hand and lifted it briefly to his mouth, brushing his lips over her scarred knuckles in a butterfly's caress. The skin seemed to tingle when he let her hand go. "Mallery," he said, nodding. He looked around at the rest of the table's nearby occupants, his eyes sliding over them dispassionately. "You all have a lovely evening, and enjoy your trips to Hogsmeade tomorrow."
Suddenly, as if they'd all been in a trance, her classmates cleared their throats and smiled and stuttered out friendly concessions and good-byes. The only one that wasn't falling all over himself to bow and scrape after Riddle was Lyall; he merely looked after the Head Boy with narrowed, suspicious eyes. After Tom and his goons were gone, they all just looked at her.
She cleared her throat. "Nice guy, Riddle," she said impassively, once again gulping down water and hoping that no one could see how her hand wavered.
Ignatius cleared his throat. "Yeah. He's a good guy. People really look up to him."
Hermione believed it.
"He…seems to like you," Lyall said. "I mean, he's never really encouraged anyone to call him by his first name, you know?" he continued, still looking uneasy. Hermione had noticed that Dumbledore was not the only person unconvinced of Riddle's act. It seemed Lyall didn't drink the Kool-Aid either, so to speak.
All of the girls still seemed at a loss for words, looking between her and the Slytherin table in awed silence.
"Seems like a pleasant sort of guy," Draco said shortly, his voice underlined with the kind of tone that just screamed "We are going to have a major discussion about this at a later time, young lady." "Hermione – chicken?" he asked, holding out a platter for her to take. She pursed her lips and grabbed it.
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"Oh. My. God! Hermione!"
Hermione sighed as she sat down on her bed. Draco had not been up for talking – in fact, he'd barely been able to stay awake while she pushed him back to the hospital wing – so she had made sure he was comfortable and settled in for sleep before she came back to the Gryffindor dorms to face the music.
"First he's walking you to class, then he goes and actively looks for you during lunch period, then he carries your bag, and sits next to you in class, kissing your hand and letting him call you by name and Merlin's left testicle, Hermione, he never lets anyone do that!"
Kat was ranting, pacing back in forth in their room in her pajamas, watching with heated eyes as Hermione began to change for bed. Iris was sitting on her bed, looking dejected, and Sabrina was twirling a piece of long, dark hair around her finger, watching Hermione with interest.
Zuri merely sat on her bed and smirked devilishly. "Tom and Hermione, sittin' in a tree, K-I-"
"Oh enough already," Hermione said sternly, glaring at Zuri. The smile on the girl's dark face faltered. "Riddle is merely…interested in my experiences living in the Orient," she lied quickly, feeling desperate. "He's very eager to learn all he can about the world, and he's expressed interest in speaking with me about it. He's quite the intellectual, and so am I, so I can relate. That's all there is to it."
Sabrina hummed. "Sure, Hermione."
Hermione bristled.
"You're so lucky," Iris said, pouting. "He's only looked at me like one time, and then it was like I didn't exist."
"I could try to mention you in conversation next time I see him?" Hermione suggested. Iris perked up. "I'll see what I can do, Iris. I'm not lying or being coy when I say that I'm just not interested," she said.
She wondered why it tasted so much like a lie.
"How could you not be interested, Hermione?" Kat said, throwing her hands up. "He's gorgeous."
"He's not my type," Hermione said, thinking of a certain fresh-faced, bright-eyed redhead. "I mean yes, he's attractive, and very smart and rather pleasant, but I'm just not…I'm not…" She swallowed, feeling a dull ache building behind her eyes.
"There's someone else," Sabrina said knowingly, staring at her perceptively.
Hermione didn't bother with the buttons of her shirt, just stripped it off over her head, clutching at the ring and locket that hung on a chain around her neck. "There was someone else."
The room was silent. Iris cleared her throat. "You were yelling out a name in your sleep last night."
"It was probably his," Hermione said uneasily, shucking her skirt and bra and pulling her nightgown over her head. "I don't want to talk about it, if that's all right."
"Right, of course, I'm sorry," Iris said, looking contrite. "So…you're really not interested in Riddle?"
"He can be…good company," Hermione replied, hating herself for meaning it. She cinched her robe around her waste, shivering. "And he intrigues me. And yes, he's handsome as the devil. But no. I have too many things to worry about right now, and I'm still not ready to move on. I'm not sure I ever will be."
"You must have really loved him," Zuri said softly. "This Ron fellow."
Hearing someone else say his name was like a sucker punch to the gut. She did not respond, only dug around in her trunk for her toothbrush. Turning her back on her roommates, she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she came back out, Zuri had already closed her curtains, Iris was out in the hallway chatting to Suzanne Sapworthy, and Sabrina and Kat were muttering in hushed tones about something. Hermione slipped into bed and pulled her curtains around her, blocking out the chill of the castle. No one spoke to her for the rest of the night, and soon she was sound asleep.
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"Then what happened?"
"I ran back down to the lake with Dumbledore, Soranus and Slughorn."
"And what exactly did you find when you got back?"
"Right as I came over the hill, she cast the killing curse at the blond. The other one was already dead."
Tom leaned forward in his seat. Avery sat across from him in his suite; it was just the two of them. The rest of his Knights had been sent back to the Slytherin dorms for the evening. "Show me."
Conan settled back into his armchair and stared into Tom's eyes dispassionately. Tom soared into the younger man's brain with ease.
Two men stumble out from the trees, looking confused, covered in sweat and blood and dirt. Tom looks on through Conan's eyes. One of them is perhaps in his early fifties, with dark hair and watery blue eyes, and the other is younger and has shoulders wider than anyone Tom has ever seen before. He is gravely wounded. They both wear black robes, and metal masks hang from around their necks.
Tom watches on as Conan stands to the side. Hermione scrambles to her feet, holding her wand and staring at the two men that have just spotted her.
"Granger?" the younger of the two says, looking delirious. His bright eyes are glazed with pain.
"Hello, Thorfinn," Granger says. Her face is impassive and her eyes cold, but Tom notices that she looks less than certain. She turns next to the brunette. "Hello, Walden. Fancy seeing the two of you here." Tom wonders why she is on a first name basis with two of her enemies…unless Thorfinn and Walden are last names? But that seems odd…no, definitely not.
"Where are we, Granger?" the one called Thorfinn asks. Walden lowers his wounded comrade down against a tree and shifts his wand in his hand, glaring at Hermione with blatant hatred.
"Hogwarts," she bites out, responding to the blonde's question but looking at his older colleague, tapping her wand against her thigh. Tom looks down, watching through Conan's eyes as she cups his elbow with her hand. The warmth of her skin is oddly conspicuous, and he wonders if the fever she had upon her arrival a week and a half ago has not abated. His young Knight's body is tense. "Conan, would you be a dear and go fetch a professor for me? Quick like," she says, the order soft and posed as a question but still unmistakably an order.
When Conan lurches forward, the older man speaks. "I don't think the boy's going anywhere, Granger. Are you, boy?"
Avery does not move or say anything, but in a split second, faster than Tom can even blink, Hermione is sending a surprisingly potent shock of magic towards Walden and knocks him off of his feet, sending him flying through the air away from Conan. As the man takes the time to halt his momentum and right himself, she shoves the junior Knight of Walpurgis in the back. "Go, Avery, run. Run!"
The sixth year immediately obeys, Tom notices. She has a commanding presence, and Tom wonders if she is in a position of leadership in the war in China, though that would be odd for someone so young; however, he still doesn't know how old she is. Avery draws his wand and dashes away towards the school. Tom watches in rapture as Avery turns just as Hermione sends a nonverbal Protego at his back to block the stunning spell Walden shoots at Conan's retreating form.
Tom is forced to follow Avery as he travels up to the school in search of an adult, though he wishes he could stay and see the rest of the duel play out. Instead, he watches through Conan's eyes as he runs through the castle doors, nearly getting bowled over by a frantic Draco Mallery, dressed only in his hospital issue white drawstring pants. His body is sculpted and pale and covered in scars, and he is running faster than anyone Tom has ever seen.
The next few seconds pass in a blur as Dumbledore and Madam Soranus jog past, followed by a huffing Slughorn, and Conan flags them down and leads them on the path that Mallery has just taken. Conan is young and sprightly, and he gets back to the lake ahead of everyone else, just in time to overhear the tail end of the conversation –
"– still owe me anything, Granger," Thorfinn was saying with a grimace. His companion lies dead on the ground, neck twisted, and Mallery is heaving, sitting on the sand, glaring at the hulking blond. "You repaid that favor. I'm simply appealing to the decency in your heart. I know my cousin wouldn't grant me the same boon."
Hermione looks torn, but there is a sort of cold reality in her eyes. "Thorfinn –"
"Do it, Granger!" the man demands, his handsome face contorted in pain and misery. "Just do it! Now!"
Tom notices how her eyes flutter closed, but also notices how she doesn't hesitate to bring her wand up. "Avada Kedavra."
The certainty with which she says it should not surprise Tom, by now, but it does nonetheless. He does not doubt that she has killed one hundred and seventy-seven people – it is written across her eyes as they snap open and stare at her handiwork. Her expression is one that is commonly adopted by those used to such traumas: exhaustion, pain, and some measure of apathy. Despite this, he can tell that it bothers her. Whether it is killing in general that bothers her, or if it's just the death of this particular man, Tom cannot know – he has no point of reference, nothing to compare it to. Either way, he respects her all the more for it; it's an easy thing to murder if you feel nothing. Tom imagines it is a far more difficult thing to do for someone with a more developed sense of empathy.
She drops the wand – not her wand, he suddenly realizes, but another's – and he notices the tremor in her hands before she shakes them out, once, twice, and then they are steady again. She winces at the awful burn on her hand, glaring at it stubbornly as if she can just will it to go away; for some reason, this makes Tom smile. What an interesting girl, this Hermione Granger.
"What happened here?"
Tom is frustrated when Slughorn forces Conan to turn away from the scene just as Dumbledore begins to speak, but smiles when Conan uses the excuse of an untied shoe to bend down and linger just a few seconds longer. Ah. Now he remembers why he wanted Conan in his Knights. Clever.
"These two men are – were – people we knew from…back home," he hears Hermione say quietly. "They attacked Mister Avery and me while –"
And then Conan is being led from the scene, and Tom pulls himself out of the memory.
"And you say that you simply happened upon her by chance out by the lake this morning?" Tom said, taking a sip of his tea.
Avery nodded. His tea was untouched. "As you know, I always walk in the mornings. Apparently Granger likes to run."
"And do you like to run, Conan?" Tom asked.
The brunette smiled – a rare thing, just a small quirk of the lips and a flash of those normally dead blue eyes. "I could learn to like it, I imagine."
"See that you do. Miss Granger might be amenable to a running partner in the mornings, if it's something she does regularly." He ran a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble there. "Find out. Worm your way in, if you can. From our short interaction this evening at dinner, I can tell she has an interest in you."
Conan's eyebrow rose slightly, but he was otherwise unaffected. Tom hated that he couldn't read the slim, freckled boy; he was the only one of his followers whose expressions he was not yet able to interpret – probably because any expressions were few and far between. "An interest, My Lord? In what way, exactly?"
Tom shrugged. "I don't quite know yet. I'm still trying to get a read on her. Is there anything you noticed about her that is worth mentioning to me?"
"There isn't a whole lot of our interaction that you haven't seen," Avery replied evenly. "She's quick with a wand, she's observant, and her manner of dealing with people is very abrupt, unless she's trying to schmooze her way out of or into something. I don't think she's naturally extroverted or good with people – I think it's a learned skill."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Interesting observation. Anything else?"
Avery frowned. "She knows that you've taken an interest. She's…wary of you. But I think you already know that."
Tom steepled his fingers, staring into his fireplace as it roared and crackled, filling the small space of his suite with warmth and light. "Yes, I do know that. I'm still trying to figure out why, exactly." He sighed. "You may go."
Conan stood, and gave a shallow bow. "Thank you, My Lord."
When the portrait clicked closed, Tom let his head fall back against the couch. "You, Miss Granger," he said to the silence of the empty room. "Are quite the enigma." He thought of Mallery, of the cold anger in those eyes, of how firm his handshake had been and the downright frostbite that he'd greeted Tom with; about the smooth drawl of his highly cultured voice and the aristocratic set of his nose. "And so, I believe, is your friend."
He stood, stretching, and began to unbutton his shirt, heading up towards his room. What an exciting puzzle to solve, he thought to himself. But where to start?
oooo
Grindelwald sat staring at the letter, his eyes narrowed. He pictured one of his Hogwarts informants, brown-haired and bright-eyed and all-too-willing to do his bidding for a place by his side.
…Dumbledore has taken an interest in the two newcomers, as has Tom Riddle. Riddle seems to be somewhat enamored of the Granger girl, though I think it's because she intrigues him more than anything else. He's even asked his connections at the Ministry to try to get a hold of her records. I'll let you know when he is successful. As I've said before, he doesn't often show interest in people, so the fact that he's been paying so much attention to her to her is odd, at best, and she seems to be warming up to him.
The boy, Draco Mallery, woke up today. Apparently a couple of old foes wandered through some sort of portal from China this morning, and he conveniently snapped out of his coma just in time to save his companion's life. You probably already know much of this from your informants inside the Ministry, but Dumbledore and Dippet have been meeting with the Minister to discuss increased security measures for the school.
"Dippet," Gellert mumbled under his breath, snorting in amusement. "Bloody old fool."
Hermione Granger also broke her wand this morning, and is in possession of a new wand – my sources say she picked it up in Africa a few months ago. I've seen her use it, and knowing how you feel about magical tools and artifacts I think it might be worth trying to get your hands on it. She and Mallery would be useful tools to have in your arsenal as well – they are soldiers, the both of them, and it is obvious they don't belong here at school. I haven't seen Mallery cast yet, but when Granger performs magic it is obvious she has serious potential. She performed stupendously well on her placement tests – she is Riddle's academic equal, easily, and she nearly scored as high as Dumbledore did. I suspect she is holding back to keep from having too many eyes on her; she doesn't seem to enjoy being the center of attention, and it isn't natural for her, but she's having a hard time fitting in.
Riddle is as cryptic as ever, as is Dumbledore. I'm finding it difficult to get closer to either one of them, but I'll keep trying, as you requested. Granger has proven easier to learn about, but now with the addition of Mallery, who seems a bit more wary, I fear I'll have lost my chance to get close to her. It's hard to know. Your other informant here has had better luck than me in getting to know her better, as she has more access to her.
Gellert sat back in his chair. News had indeed reached him about this new pair of students that had magically appeared in Hogwarts last week. Normally a couple of teenagers wouldn't warrant his attention, but, like Tom Riddle, they seemed to be a tad bit different than most. And Gellert liked to keep an eye on anything that might either be useful to him – or that might be a threat to him. Tom Riddle could be both. So, perhaps, could these two strangers from the Orient.
Perhaps he should, like Riddle, appeal to his connections and see what he could find out about the two. If he knew Dumbledore at all, his old friend would be hoarding the pair, trying to cultivate them. For Dumbledore, like Grindelwald, liked to have control over those he deemed worthy. Control. One thing that they had in common. One of the things that had brought them together in the first place.
Gellert could still not help but feel some regret when it came to Albus. If only things had worked out differently.
But they hadn't. Dumbledore had chosen his path, and Grindelwald had chosen his, and there was no turning back.
He picked up a quill and penned a quick response. Surely, despite being a bit unusual, the girl is susceptible to the attentions of attractive men? If Riddle can do it, so can you.
Folding it and putting it in an unmarked envelope, he tied it to his owl's leg. "You know what to do, Lilith," he said, stroking her feathers. With a gentle hoot, the dark-eyed barred owl left her perch and swooped out the open window, headed northwest towards Scotland.
oooo
Short chapter, I know, but the next one will be up soon. Also, there may or may not be another Tomione, two Dramiones, and a Scorose in the works. I make no promises on how soon they will be posted, because I don't have a whole lot written yet. Only one of the Dramiones and the Scorose have been started. So yeah.
Many hugs and kisses and well-wishes.
Giraffe :)