She Rises

by giraffelove92

"He watched as the air around her crackled with her magic, and it was so aggressive, so electrifying, that he wondered how this beautiful creature had ever managed to evade his notice – how he'd so foolishly underestimated her from the start." Darkfic.

15. Chapter 15

I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update. Here's why. Prepare to gasp in horror.

I went to my sister's house for Christmas (happy belated Christmas and New Years, by the way) and on Monday morning I woke up and promptly knocked the water glass off of my bedside table and onto the carpet. Now, my computer was on the floor next to my bed – closed. Totally closed. And it didn't even get the brunt of the spilled water. Only like a teaspoon of water got on it. And remember, it was closed.

Apparently none of that mattered, because even though I was suddenly WIDE AWAKE and dried my computer off almost obsessively, it wouldn't turn on. Of course, I'm starting to panic, and all I'm thinking is that ALL of my shit is on this computer, and no matter how many times I told myself that I would go out and get an external hard drive to back my shit up, I never did it. Yes, feel free to shame me all you like.

My sister, being the lovely person that she is, calmed me down and assured me that it would probably be okay, but even if it wasn't someone would still be able to get the hard drive out and all of my information would be safe. So I felt optimistic. Keep in mind that I know practically nothing about computers. I'm like, 80 years old. My 86-year-old step-granddad has a fucking Facebook (he calls it "The Facebook") and has a nice new Windows computer…yeah. I don't want to talk about it.

But I digress. So here I am, without use of a functioning computer, with six years worth of work unable to be accessed. And this isn't just my stuff for Fanfiction, or old school papers – this includes over 220,000 words of a novel that I've been working on for over 7 years. Not to mention separate documents full of character development, plot outlines, general layouts for this one novel – all gone.

So my dad – who is my hero, honestly, he's so freaking awesome – agrees to buy me a new Mac to replace my old broken one, and directs me to go to the Apple store in Raleigh (where I now live) so that they can take the hard drive out and load all of my stuff onto my new computer. Unfortunately, Apple is fucking retarded (excuse my language) and they aren't "licensed" to work on anything older than 5 years (and this is a 2010 – I got it in college), so they tell me that though it looks like my hard drive is uncorrupted, they can't do anything with it. So I go to Best Buy, and I get a new computer and get the Geek Squad to do what Apple wouldn't. So the next day I get a call, and they say that they got all of the information from my old computer onto an external hard drive, and then tried to put it on the new computer – only to find out that the information is encrypted.

You can imagine my surprise. So here I am, a twenty-four year old girl wearing a dumbfounded-deer-in-headlights expression, wondering how on earth I managed to encrypt all of my information when I can barely open my Documents file without my hands shaking like I'm about to defuse a bomb or something (okay so maybe that's a little bit of an exaggeration, but not much of one).

Long story short, Best Buy couldn't do shit, so now I'm panicking again, and my uncle gets me in touch with a company that he works with a lot here in Raleigh. So I take all my shit to them, and I am still waiting on the verdict for whether or not they will be able to recover my information and – here's the important part – how much it will cost. Because I'm poor, and can't afford to run all over the place and shell out 700 bucks…at the same time, I refuse to lose all of that work. So I might have to dip into the trust fund that my Grandpa set up for me – which pisses me off, because I'm saving all that shit for later when, you know, I want to buy a house, or send my future children to college, or whatever (granted, I don't want children, but we're speaking in hypotheticals here).

Anyways, I have had spotty access to computers for the past couple of weeks, not to mention that I have none of the stuff that I'd prewritten, or any of the details about my HP universe in this fic, or any of the flashback scenes that I've constructed (there is a particularly important one that I worked on for a while just to create the right atmosphere, and I really hope to God I don't have to try to replicate it, because it's just so good). Also, all of the kickass quotes I've discovered and written down over the years - including ones that I painstakingly selected to use in this fic - have vanished as well. It's just sad.

So if things are a little bit slow for me from now on, please forgive me. Also, I bought an external hard drive so that I can keep this nightmarish situation from ever happening again. And I'm still hoping and praying that I can get all of that mess back…I've spent an annoying amount of time crying over the possibility that it's lost for good.

So there it is. Begin the shaming, and the comments about my utter stupidity of not backing up my shit – I'm ready for it. And I deserve it. So yeah. Don't be shy.

Anyway, here is chapter 15, finally. I'm sorry I made you wait so long. There is a lot of Tomione interaction in this one though, so hopefully the tension will make up for it.

Action!

---

oooo

The thing women must do to rise to power is to redefine their femininity. Once, power was considered a masculine attribute. In fact, power has no sex. -Katharine Graham

Pair up in threes. - Yogi Berra

They say the Devil's water - it ain't so sweet
You don't have to drink right now
But you can dip your feet
Every once in a little while
-"When You Were Young" by The Killers

---

oooo

"Unfortunately, you'll need a chaperone."

"A chaperone?"

Draco frowned as Dumbledore sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Dippet was lax with you last week when you went to Diagon Alley, Hermione, but mostly because he was still in a bit of shock from your rather…unorthodox arrival. He has since come to his senses, and as such doesn't think that it is appropriate for two young students to be, I think his words were, 'gallivanting around town without proper supervision.'"

Draco growled, feeling rather humorless. His head was pounding, as usual, and his right arm tended to go numb at the most inopportune times – but for the most part he was better, stronger than he had been the two days previous. He was using a crutch to walk today, as his wheelchair was too cumbersome to travel with by floo. "Did you mention the fact that we are two grown adults that have literally walked right out of hell and are pretty fucking used to looking out for ourselves?" Draco said sourly, leaning against the wall of his former headmaster's study.

Dumbledore sighed. "Language, Mister Mallery," he said tiredly. "And yes, I have brought it to his attention, but when Armando gets an idea into his head, I'm afraid it's very difficult to pry it out."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please don't tell me that Tom Riddle is going to be our escort. Please."

The professor leaned back in his chair. "We have our monthly staff meeting from eleven to three, and so none of the teachers can take you. Tom volunteered to accompany you."

Hermione grimaced, pulling anxiously on a lock of hair that was still slightly damp from her bath after her morning run with the Avery boy. "Of course he did. How generous of him." Draco snorted, and they shared a look.

Dumbledore looked apprehensive. "Dippet favors the boy. He always has. I cannot move him on many things when it comes to Tom Riddle. Our Head Boy has wrapped the headmaster around his finger, and while I have quite a bit of sway with Armando, he has a major blind spot when it comes to Riddle. And there is nothing that I can say or do to change his mind, short of causing Tom bodily harm that actually prevents him from going."

Draco leaned forward eagerly. "I can assist you with that," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Nothing a shattered leg won't fix."

Dumbledore gave him a wry smile. "Be that as it may, Draco, I would not advise it. Surely you can handle a few hours in his company? You'll be out in public, at least. You'll just have to be extra careful about what you say in front of him."

Hermione winced. "It's like walking on the edge of a knife, Professor," she said wearily. "Knowing what to say and not to say. And trying to figure out how close to get to him. It's…precarious."

Albus stood from behind his desk, towering above both of them from his great height of 6'4". "I understand. As long as you can make it through to the end of the year, Hermione, then you can sit your N.E.W.T.s and move on with your life – whatever that may look like. You'll be able to be free of this school and all of its inhabitants."

Draco met Hermione's complex brown eyes for a moment before she looked away. He was quite sure that if Hermione had to stay in this timeline, she would never be free of Tom Riddle. He was, Draco thought, in her past, present and future. And even if she were physically removed from him, he and his words and deeds as both young Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort would linger on in her memory, haunting her. Draco did not envy his friend her photographic memory. Not at all.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Unfortunately we'll not have time to study your condition this morning, Hermione – Tom has a prefect meeting this evening, and needs time to prepare. He's asked to leave at ten, so I'm afraid you'll have to go straight to the headmaster's office from here. I'll accompany you."

He ushered them out into the hallway and locked his office door behind him, and they started down the corridor to the headmaster's office in silence, all three feeling apprehensive. Draco could practically taste the tension on his tongue. He reached out and touched Hermione's elbow gently, pulling her out of her no doubt tumultuous thoughts. He recognized the look on her face when she got lost in her own head.

"Relax," he said lowly, hobbling along on his crutch.

Hermione snorted. "Says you: Mister Doomsday, always telling me to 'be careful' and 'don't get too comfortable' and 'don't trust anyone.' You are the most pessimistic person I know."

Draco scoffed. "You are a total pessimist. Talk about the pot and kettle."

Hermione frowned and stuck her chin out stubbornly. "I'm a realist. There is a difference."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine," he conceded, knowing that she would never back down from a point when her jaw stuck out like that. Not his Hermione. Stubborn as a stone, when it suited her.

She reached down and squeezed his free hand. "We'll be fine."

"Yes, we will," he murmured. "I think we can handle it. Remember the manticore? And the kraken? This can hardly be worse than that. An afternoon at Diagon Alley is all that it'll be. We'll just ignore Riddle as best we can, and get it over with."

She smiled at him in gratitude. "You always know how to put things in perspective, Draco. Way to remind me of two of the most terrifying experiences of our lives."

He shrugged. "Honestly, I wasn't even scared. You're just a wimp, is all."

She scoffed. "I distinctly remember you screaming like a little girl when that manticore got a claw into the back of your leg. And again when you were about to be kraken food. It's a very distinctive sound. Like a…squealing rabbit."

Draco looked at her in horror. "You take that back! I do not sound like a bloody rabbit."

"A baby rabbit, Mallery. A teeny tiny, little bitty, baby ra — "

Dumbledore looked back at them and cleared his throat, cutting her off. "If you two are quite finished…" He gestured to the gargoyles in front of the headmaster's office.

Draco coughed in embarrassment. "Er, yes, Professor — right."

"Up you go," the old wizard said kindly. "Remember: be careful what you say."

Hermione grinned at him. "We're always careful. Right, Draco?"

"Absolutely," he said confidently, smiling at Dumbledore.

Their old headmaster raised his eyebrows. "Somehow I get the feeling that you two have a loose definition of the word 'careful.'" He smiled at them. "However, I'm prone to such sentiments myself. Now, go on, get going. I'll see you at dinner this evening. I hope you have an easy time finding a wand, Mister Mallery. Ah, and the password is 'meningitis'."

Hermione and Draco looked at each other curiously as Dumbledore turned abruptly and swept away down the hall. They then looked to the gargoyles, which jumped aside.

"Meningitis?" Draco mumbled as he stepped onto the staircase, Hermione not far behind. "That's… Well. I can't quite find the words."

"Weird?" Hermione suggested. "Morbid? Indicative of someone who is effectively losing their mind?"

Draco snorted. "All three, but the last one seems the most accurate." He looked down into the swirling depths of his friend's brown eyes. "You ready?"

She grinned. "I was born ready."

He rolled his eyes as she sniggered in amusement. The staircase ground to a halt, and they pushed open the door.

---

oooo

Tom paced in front of the fireplace in Dippet's office, glaring at the floor as the headmaster sat at his desk and puffed away on his pipe. He was…anxious. And Tom didn't often feel anxious.

"Riddle, my dear boy, I fear you will wear a hole in the floor in front of my fireplace," the ancient man said, his voice small and hoarse. "Whatever troubles you so?"

Tom internally rolled his eyes, but pasted on an indulgent smile and stopped pacing. "Merely going over the points I need to bring up during my meeting with the prefects tonight. And eager for our two new students to arrive, so that we can commence our trip to Diagon Alley."

Dippet chuckled. "Oh, yes. I can imagine that you are indeed eager. I've noticed that our Miss Granger has caught your interest."

Tom froze. "Pardon?" He choked out, staring at his headmaster in shock.

The old wizard chuckled again. "Don't worry, Tom. Horace pointed it out to me a few days ago, and given that the two of you are both remarkable students, we think it would be a good match. I would encourage you to use your outing today as an opportunity to get to know her better. She seems to have a certain disregard for the rules of society, and could use a nice young man like you to help settle her down."

Tom stared, trying to keep his expression neutral. Horror rose up in his throat, wrapping around his windpipe and squeezing. He had to remind himself to breathe. "I'm sure you and Professor Slughorn must have gotten the wrong idea, Headmaster," Tom said tightly. "Both Granger and Mallery are interesting, and I would very much like to know more of their story, but that is where the sentiment ends. I'm really trying to focus on my studies. Romance is far from my mind, I can assure you." A pair of enigmatic eyes swirling with the colors of autumn flickered across his mind's eye, and he simultaneously felt a rush of dark hatred, insatiable intrigue, and heady desire. But the burning red anger rushed most heavily through his ears.

Dippet laughed, puffing again on his pipe. The heavy smell of the smoke suddenly felt suffocating. "Of course, Tom, of course," the headmaster said with a chuckle. "Don't worry: your secret is safe with me." He winked.

An image of himself reaching across the headmaster's desk and strangling the life from the old coot's neck with his bare hands flashed through Tom's mind, and he allowed it to amuse him for a few seconds before he put it away and addressed the older wizard with a mild smile. "I appreciate the interest in my love life, Headmaster Dippet," he said with a gracious bow of his head, the word "love" burning his tongue like a hot iron. "And I'm honored that Professor Slughorn cares enough to mention it to you. But please don't waste your time entertaining such notions. If and when I feel it is appropriate for me to start courting women, I think I can manage just fine on my own." The lie tasted sour on his tongue, and he wondered why the thought of romance with a woman prickled at his brain uncomfortably; he'd never ever entertained the notion of "settling down" with a woman. It was just not an option.

The headmaster gave a full belly laugh. "Very well then, I will keep my head out of your affairs, Riddle; but I expect that Professor Slughorn will be harder to convince. You know how much of a matchmaker he fancies himself to be. And he has his eye set on you and Miss Granger. You'd make a very handsome pair, you know."

Tom raised his eyebrow, not amused. "Indeed." The comment did not invite a response.

Tom turned slowly as he heard the stone staircase turn, suddenly feeling an odd tightness in his gut. He frowned when the door opened and his heart skipped.

He was not prone to such physical manifestations; odd, then, that a fiery girl and her conspicuously icy companion could inspire such feelings within him. Odd, and unprecedented. And unwanted.

Mallery entered the room first, leaning heavily upon a wooden crutch but looking far healthier than he had yesterday and the day before; his grey eyes were filled with the same frigidity and determination that Tom had seen upon first meeting him Friday night. He was wearing a white uniform shirt and a pair of grey slacks, and navy robes. He tugged at the collar of his shirt.

Strangely, Tom got the image of a wolf wearing sheep's clothing.

Granger entered afterwards, sweeping in elegantly and closing the door behind her. In a classic, casual black dress and a hooded cloak the color of fresh blood, her hair pinned back from her face and falling down her back in riotous curls, she was the picture of stylish elegance. However, if Mallery looked like a wolf in sheep's clothing, she had the look of a dragon entertaining the rest of the world by wearing clothes; just waiting for the right moment to rip them off and set fire to the very society that would impose such a thing to begin with. She wore no makeup; she didn't need any, as the first thing anyone would be drawn to look at was the pair of deep-set sorrel eyes that dominated her lightly tanned face.

"Good morning!" She said cheerily, flashing Tom and the headmaster a charming smile. Tom saw the glint of mischief in her eyes, and watched as Draco gave her a barely perceptible smirk. She turned to Tom.

"Oh, Tom, thank you so much for volunteering to go with us today," she said, smiling at him, her eyes deep and warm and filled with derision and promises of danger. "We know how busy your schedule is as Head Boy, and we're grateful that you're willing to take the time to escort us to Diagon Alley."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her in warning before returning her polite smile. "Of course, Hermione. I'm sure Mallery is just itching to get his hands on a wand."

He looked over at the flaxen-haired man, holding his hand out for Mallery to shake. The other boy took his hand smoothly in a well-practiced maneuver that spoke of aristocracy and highbrow society. He was willing to bet that this Mallery character was a pureblood.

Of course, he couldn't know for sure, because his contacts at the Ministry were still in the process of getting their hands on the two soldiers' records. Inept fools.

Mallery gave him a tight smile, though his strange, mercurial eyes were two icebergs in his face. "I appreciate the time. No matter how much wandless magic one practices, it's just not the same as having a wand in hand."

Read: I would like to have a wand, but I can beat your arse whether I have one or not, so don't challenge me.

Tom gave him a mild smile. "Well, I'm certain that Mister Ollivander will have the perfect fit for you today." He squeezed the other boy's hand, and withdrew. "Some say he's the most accomplished wandmaker in the world."

"Indeed. He is quite remarkable," Dippet said, standing and coming forth from behind his desk. "Although, Miss Granger, I do think you have a new wand that he might want to take a look at. Word has reached him of the wand you received in Africa, and I think he is most anxious to meet you."

Tom noticed the skin around her eyes tighten. "I'll be glad to indulge him his curiosities," she drawled. She looked over at Tom. "Shall we?" she asked, her voice dropping to a tone that had his hackles rising and his loins stirring. She smirked at him. He tilted his head, and smirked back.

"Of course. Shall I go first?"

She nodded. "Perhaps that would be best. We'll follow your example and be right behind you."

He looked to Dippet. "We'll be back sooner rather than later, I should hope," he said nonchalantly. "We'll floo into Hogsmeade and take a carriage back to the school. Enjoy your staff meeting, sir."

Dippet nodded, looking between Hermione and Tom and winking infuriatingly. "Thank you, Mister Riddle. As always, I know I can count on you to be responsible and set a good example for our school."

Tom nodded, turned towards the fireplace, rolled his eyes, grabbed some floo powder, and shouted "Diagon Alley!" In a handful of seconds, he was standing in the Leaky Cauldron. He brushed soot off of his robes.

"Oof!" He stumbled forward as a solid mass of soft fabric and wild hair hit him in the back, pushing him forward. He inhaled the subtle smells of lavender, brown sugar, parchment and just a hint of wood smoke as he caught himself against the wall and clasped Granger's arm, steadying her as she came flying through the floo.

She straightened her dress and cloak, and looked over at him coolly. "You know, typically you step out of the fireplace after you floo in. I thought that was common knowledge."

He sneered at her, both hateful and appreciative of her acerbic wit. "It's also common knowledge that you're supposed to wait a few seconds before flooing in after someone." He released her arm from his grip, aware that he was still holding it. It was strangely warm.

"Has your fever not gone down?" he asked, frowning. "It's been almost two weeks. Surely Soranus has treated it by now?" He boldly put the back of his hand to her forehead simply because he was curious as to how she would take it. It was burning hot.

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she grasped his hand with her own, bringing it down to rest by his side. She squeezed it in warning, the skin of her palm dry and hot.

"Yes, she did treat it, and no, it has not gone away," she said, cocking her head to one side, her jaw clenched. "And remember our little talk about you putting your hands on me without my permission?"

He would swear he saw her eyes flare red-orange for a split-second before they swirled back to their typical conglomeration of russet and tawny and bistre. Not that they were exactly "typical." No; Hermione Granger was anything but typical.

He leaned in closer to her as they heard the sound of Draco coming through the floo. He felt her hair tickle his cheek as he drew his face towards her ear. "And what would constitute permission, Hermione?"

He pulled away from her just as Mallery landed in the fireplace, coughing and brushing soot out of his hair. The blond stepped forward, and Hermione went to him, brushing ash and dust off of his robes until he batted her away with a muttered "All right, Mum, leave off."

When she turned back towards him, the peachy flush that spread across her high cheekbones and pale throat made his blood heat in his veins. He caught her eyes, and smirked in satisfaction. She looked somewhat like a startled rabbit, before her mask of cool indifference fell back into place. He could see the red-hot hostility shining in her eyes, though; could feel it in the heat of her skin as she brushed past him, the side of her cloak catching on his robes. He smiled as the two old friends strode towards the bar, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction.

He had found the most effective way to unsettle Hermione Granger, and he was just dying to put it to good use.

He followed them casually, and watched curiously as Hermione pulled a handful of galleons out of her cloak — far more than was necessary to buy a simple drink — and put them on the counter, catching the eye of the bartender who unfortunately shared Tom's annoyingly common first name.

"Hello, Tom," Hermione said charmingly, sending him a stunning smile — dimples and all. "How are you doing today?"

The older bartender came over to her immediately, his beady brown eyes staring at her with as close to affection as Tom thought he'd ever seen. "Hullo, Hermione. What are you doin' here today?" he asked, smiling at her with only a handful of teeth to boast.

She leaned forward. "Well, first off I'd like three firewhiskies — Blishen's, please, if you don't mind — for my friends and me," she said, gesturing to Draco and Tom. "And then I'd like to know how you are doing, Tom; and only then would I like you to tell me what the word on the street is, so to speak."

The owner of the pub looked extraordinarily pleased. Tom struggled not to roll his eyes. Apparently what Avery had said was true: she did know how to schmooze with the best of them. Only the tiny glint of uncertainty in her eyes gave away the fact that she was not at all comfortable in the roll.

Tom sidled up next to Hermione at the bar, making sure to be close enough that she got flustered; she very determinedly did not look at him, though he saw her hand squeeze the edge of the bar in a white-knuckled grip. Again, his eyes were drawn to the tiny threads of gold ink that stained the skin of her middle finger; he would have to pry the information out of her somehow.

The bartender Tom slid a shot of firewhisky to all three of them, and Tom grabbed his and, against his better judgment as the Head Boy of Hogwarts, tossed it back. He watched Hermione and Draco do the same, and was impressed but not at all surprised when neither of them winced. He watched the frustrating witch next to him lick her lips, catching the spare bit of whisky that ended up on her bottom lip, and felt his body suddenly flush with desire.

Merlin be damned, why was he reacting so strongly? She was hardly the most beautiful woman he'd ever encountered. And she wasn't exactly eager to jump into his bed, either. In fact, she was a about as inviting as a bloody cactus. Hopping in bed with her might be like trying to sleep with a venomous tantacula. There was nothing that should make him want her so badly.

Just as he was berating himself for his inexcusable distraction, he saw her fingers flush with orange light suddenly before it faded away. The smell of wood smoke grew stronger in his nose.

That. That was why he wanted her so badly. Because nothing about her made sense, and every time he drew near to her he could feel the power underneath her skin, burning, vibrating, humming, just waiting to be unleashed. But what was it, exactly, that made her power so different from others'? Albus Dumbledore's power was palpable, and very, very strong. Tom could feel Mulciber's power when he was casting, and sometimes picked up on Raven Flynn's deep, mysterious magic when she walked by him in the halls or stood next to him in class. Dolohov's dark magic felt like oil against Tom's skin when the younger boy sat near to him. Hell, Mallery, even from a few feet away, vibrated with a cold, angry magic that Tom could practically taste on the end of his tongue.

But her magic…it was unique. She had more power than the average witch or wizard, that was for sure, but Tom could tell that she wasn't, overall, more powerful than himself or Dumbledore or other remarkably skilled magicians. Though impressive, it was not the sheer magnitude of her power that had caught his attention and continued to keep it — it was the strangeness of it, the temperature of it; it burned like fire and lightning and lava, and was fueled by justice and kindness…and loss and hate and vengeance. It was unearthly in its intensity, and he didn't know what to make of it. He wanted it for himself, but the more he was around her, and the more he was exposed to little glimpses of her magic, the more he wondered if it would not just be a better idea to destroy it.

Then again, he would have to kill her…and no matter how many potential problems that would solve, and how many threats it would eliminate, he just didn't want to do it. At least, not just yet.

He was — quite literally, he felt — playing with fire.

"I'm doing well, Hermione," Tom the bartender was saying. "Er, well, I started seeing someone." He blushed, looking bashful.

Hermione laughed delightedly. "That's great, Tom! I'm so happy for you! Well, come on then, tell me her name." Tom stared at her in effectively concealed awe, wondering at how she could sound so bloody interested in one of the least interesting people on the planet.

"Name's Gertrude," the barkeep said, pouring them each another shot even though they hadn't asked for any more. Mallery immediately downed his, catching Tom's eye over Hermione's head. They shared a look. Though Tom could tell Mallery wasn't someone he would come to like, necessarily — the boy was as cold as an icicle, and deeply suspicious of strangers — they did, apparently, have something in common: they had no interest in making small talk. Granger, however, was eating this shit up like Sunday brunch after winning the quidditch World Cup. She was acting, of course, but damn if it didn't seem genuine.

"And what does Gertrude do?" Hermione said kindly, her eyes shining with expertly feigned interest.

"She's a healer's aid at St. Mungo's," he replied. "She came to the pub on Friday evening, and I sat down for dinner with her. And we're goin' out again tonight. 'M nervous."

Hermione shook her head and smiled. "Don't be nervous. You had dinner once, and she liked you enough to see you again. You've got nothing to worry about, Tom. It'll be great."

Tom blushed. "Well. Enough about me. Oh!" he exclaimed, leaning towards them and away from the subtly prying eyes of the rest of the restaurant. "There's news — from the continent."

Draco and Tom both leaned forward now, interested. Tom got another whiff of Hermione's scent - he thought it might be coming from her hair — and his eyes fluttered closed briefly.

He was a damned fool.

"What news?" Hermione asked. All work and no play now, her face was deadly serious. "Grindelwald?"

Tom nodded. "He's got spies all over Britain, they say, and he's startin' to move into North Africa and the Middle East, too."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "That's awfully quick."

"Too quick," Tom heard Draco mutter. The blonde's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't like it, Hermione. We shouldn't be here."

Hermione shushed him. "What else, Tom?" she asked lowly.

"Well, there's talk…talk about you," the pub owner said, looking uncomfortable. "The Ministry wants to bring you in, question you. Word is Dumbledore's doin' everythin' he can to keep them from you, but I dunno how long he'll be able to say no to Minister Spencer-Moon. Leonard is pretty tough when he sets his mind to something; but Dumbledore has a lot of power in the Ministry. A lot."

Hermione drummed her fingers on the bar. Tom remained silent, content to watch her and listen as she spoke with the bartender (who had just earned himself a place on Tom's list of "Potentially Useful People to Have in His Pocket"). "Draco and I can handle the Ministry," she said, determination sparking in her eyes. "No need to worry about us, Tom. We have nothing to hide."

Tom almost snorted out loud at the lie. Nothing to hide. Right.

"Oh, and I almost forgot to mention," the old bartender said conspiratorially, "Apparently there's talk of a woman Minister running for office during the next election. It's buzzing around the town. A witch, as Minster for Magic — it hasn't happened in more than three decades. Not after Venusia Crickerly died and the Wizengamot determined that women were unfit to hold the highest office. It's wild."

Hermione snorted. "Bloody ridiculous is what it is. Women not fit to hold office," she muttered bitterly. "Utter stupidity."

Tom was reminded of what she'd said yesterday after breakfast: I mean honestly, Tom, how do you stand it? The utter stupidity of it?

Tom watched as Draco put a gentle hand on Hermione's back. "We should get going, Granger," he said quietly. "You know how I hate spending too much time in one place."

Hermione turned and smiled. "Of course." She looked back at the owner of the Leaky. "Goodbye, Tom; I'll see you soon, all right? Please tell Gertrude that I can't wait to meet her."

Tom the bartender flushed under her attention, and blushed even darker when she leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "All righ', Hermione. Good day to you."

Tom was left standing in something of a stupor by the bar stool as Granger shot down her second firewhisky and left with a flurry of her crimson cloak, stalking towards the door with purpose. Tom wondered if she was aware of all of the sets of eyes that followed her every move. Mallery certainly was — he scowled at the other patrons of the pub until they all looked back down into their drinks.

Hermione got to the door and then turned back. "Are you coming along, or not?" she asked haughtily, her color still high from his proximity to her at the bar. "I was under the impression that chaperones were supposed to accompany their charges to their destinations. Am I wrong?"

Tom glared at her, and shot his second firewhisky down before nodding at Tom the barkeep in thanks and striding over to where she and Mallery stood. He opened the door for them and bowed mockingly. "Please, after you, Your Excellency."

Hermione gave him a sour look, Draco actually snorted in amusement which earned him an elbow to the ribs, and Tom let the door swing shut behind them and took the lead towards Ollivander's.

"He's right down here, on the left," he said clearly. "And I know a little place to grab lunch afterwards. If you need to do any more shopping, today's a good day for it. I don't have to be back at the school until four; though I'd prefer to get back as early as possible, if it's all the same to you."

Mallery shrugged. "I might could use an owl."

Hermione snorted. "And who exactly do you plan on owling?" she said incredulously. "We don't know anybody here, and everyone back home is either dead, or missing and presumed dead."

The harsh reality with which she said it made Draco's eyelid twitch. "Everyone could use a personal owl, Hermione. You got a cat - I want an owl. It's as simple as that."

Hermione sighed. "Fine. I'm sorry."

They got to the front of Ollivander's, and Tom felt an irrational flush of jealously wrap around his spine and squeeze as Mallery reached forward and pulled Granger's bottom lip out from between her teeth.

"Stop it," he said quietly. "You'll chew your lip off, one of these days."

She batted his hand away and scowled. "Just go buy a wand, you wanker. Go on," she said, pushing him towards the door, sniggering as he caught his crutch on a cobblestone and stumbled, righting himself quickly. "Do try to make it through the front door without falling on your face."

Mallery sneered at his friend — girlfriend? No, that didn't seem right — and Tom opened the door for him when he was ready, ushering them both inside. He smiled to himself as Hermione tried to go through the door without touching him; she wasn't successful. She glared up at him as she turned sideways to squeeze between his body and the doorframe, incidentally brushing her chest against his own, skimming it. He grinned at her meanly as she blushed, unable to control her bodily reactions to being in his presence. She snarled, ducking past him and into the wand shop with a harrumph.

Ollivander seemed to recognize them immediately. He looked at Tom. "Mister Riddle," he greeted in his thin, hoarse voice. "How nice to see you again. It's been a few years, hasn't it? How's the wand treating you?"

Tom smiled, pulling out his yew and phoenix feather wand, fondling the bone handle. "As well as ever, Mister Ollivander — I can't thank you enough. It's perfect."

The middle aged man smiled, pleased. He looked to Mallery. "And you must be Draco Mallery," he said, coming out from behind his desk. "Yes, I was told you need a new wand. And look at that hair — like you've had a terrible shock."

Draco's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "A gift from my parents, Mister Ollivander." He shook the wandmaker's hand. "It's a pleasure."

Ollivander's eyes turned to Hermione. "And you, my dear — well, aren't you lovely." Tom watched as the girl blushed faintly and clenched her teeth together. It was interesting to see how awkward she was under flattery. She shied away from it in the classroom, and now when someone commented on her physical appearance she was flushing like a schoolgirl. "And I hope I'm not being too forward, Miss Granger — but would you be so kind as to let me look at your wand?"

Tom stared, watching intently as her eyes traveled to Draco, and then to Tom, where they lingered for a moment. Then she looked back to Ollivander and smiled tightly. "Of course," she said, sliding her wand out from Merlin-knew-where — honestly, Tom could not figure out where she kept the damned thing. "Be careful — sometimes it doesn't take to strangers so nicely."

Mallery barked out a laugh and flexed his right hand. "Yeah, the last time I tried to touch it, it blasted me across the room and broke all of the fingers on my right hand. Luckily it isn't my wand hand, but still — I was not amused." He gave Granger a mild glare, and she looked away, sheepish. She handed the wand to Ollivander.

Tom watched in fascination as Ollivander jolted, the wand shocking him as if in warning. The wandmaker laughed uncomfortably, but was immediately captivated by the unusual, striking wand. "Gorgeous," the older man breathed, running his long spindly fingers along the whirled wood of the handle and then down to skim along the straight line of the wand itself. "Absolutely stunning. The wood is pink ivory, yes?" he asked, looking up at Hermione.

She shifted, staring at the wand in his hand. "Yes, sir."

"And the core?"

"Nundu heartstring, sir."

Ollivander sucked in air through his teeth in a low whistle, shaking his head in wonder. "Interesting. Very interesting." He fondled the wand a bit more, and then handed it back to Hermione. Tom watched it with greedy eyes, wanting so badly to hold it. For what properties did nundu heartstring give to a wand, he wondered? "I would very much like to speak with you at greater length about your wand, Miss Granger, if you are amenable to it. I hear you will be at Slughorn's first Slug Club ball this Thursday, correct?"

Granger nodded. "Yes. You'll be there as well?"

"I will indeed. Perhaps you will give me ten minutes of your time?" Ollivander asked kindly.

Hermione smiled. "Oh, I'm sure I could spare fifteen, Mister Ollivander," she replied jokingly. She stowed her wand so quickly that, once again, Tom was left without a point of origin. He sighed in frustration.

Ollivander chuckled. He looked to Mallery. "Now, Mister Mallery — can you tell me about your previous wand?"

Draco shifted, and Ollivander gestured for him to sit down on the chair in the corner and rest. He did, sitting down in relief. "I've had several, sir."

The wandmaker waved his hand. "Tell me about all of them."

Mallery cleared his throat and looked up to the ceiling. "My first was hawthorn and unicorn hair, ten inches. Then I used my mother's wand for a week until I could find another — it was hornbeam and unicorn hair, nine and a half inches." He blinked rapidly. "I then used a spare wand I found off a — well, one I'd found," he said uncomfortably. The unspoken words hung loud in the small, stuffy shop: A spare wand I found off a dead body. "Walnut and unicorn hair. Then I acquired my father's wand." He swallowed here, and paused.

"Did you borrow his, as well?" Ollivander prompted, his brow furrowing.

"I killed him," Mallery said abruptly, his mouth tightening. His jaw ticked. Tom's heart beat faster in his chest. It seemed he was not the only one to have committed patricide. What was Mallery's excuse, he wondered? "Beat him in a duel. His wand switched allegiances fairly well. It was elm, dragon heartstring, and eighteen inches."

"Oh my," Ollivander said, his pale silver eyes, so similar to Draco's own, widening. "Well. Was that the last one you had?"

Draco shook his head, clearing his throat. "I lost it in a battle. I got another one, red oak and dragon heartstring, fourteen inches, and it was almost the perfect wand."

"Almost?" The wandmaker hedged.

"It was very responsive, but sometimes was reluctant to perform…". He trailed off, his eyes shifting to Hermione.

"Darker spells," Hermione finished for him with a frown. "Try to understand, Mister Ollivander — we are, neither one of us, dark wizards, but in our experience sometimes we've had to bend the rules a bit." Tom noticed that Draco's lips tightened and he glanced at Hermione with what looked suspiciously like concern. "It's important to be able to access all areas of magic to survive, sometimes, in war. The red oak wand worked well for Draco, but not well enough."

Mister Ollivander bowed his head, looking thoughtful, but not judgmental. "I see." He stood. "Let me go back to my storeroom — I have a few that I'd like you to try." He walked to the back.

As soon as he was gone, Draco fixed his sharp grey eyes on Hermione. "At your three o'clock, Granger," he said lowly.

Hermione hummed, fiddling with a paperweight on Ollivander's front desk; it was in the shape of a phoenix. "I see him. He's been following us since the pub."

Draco nodded. "You want to take care of that?"

Tom turned ever-so-subtly, pretending to look at a vase on Ollivander's desk. He glanced up, freezing as he spotted a dark-haired wizard across the street, smoking a pipe and periodically glancing at them through the window.

Hermione sighed, looking comically bored. "Why do I always have to investigate the shady stalker across the street?" she whined.

Draco outright laughed. "Oh, please. You're the one that just has to investigate every little thing, and half the time it puts us in mortal peril. A dark shadow lingering at the edge of a cave in the Kazakhstani desert? Let's go look at it! A creepy old man following us through the canals of Venice? Let's stop and talk to him! Honestly, Granger, you bring this on yourself. Besides," he added, kicking at his crutch, "I'm not exactly at a hundred percent. And I'm not in possession of a wand." He looked over at Tom, and Tom did not at all like the slow grin that stretched across his face. "Take Riddle with you. He'll keep you safe."

Hermione scoffed. "He'll be luggage, Draco. I'd rather go alone."

Tom bristled. "Be that as it may," he said coldly, fixing her with a frigid stare, "I cannot let you go alone. If I were found out to have left you alone unaccompanied, I would be stripped of my Head Boy title and possibly expelled, if something ended up happening to you." He fingered his wand in the pocket of his trousers. "Sure, I'm not a trained soldier, but you'll find I'm not exactly a novice, either. Besides Mallery, you won't find a better person to watch your back." He straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the front desk. "Fancy some ice cream, Granger?"

Hermione tilted her head and smirked. "Fine. I could go for a cone of brimbleberry sherbet." She turned, nodded to Mallery, and exited the store.

On his way out, excitement churning in his belly, Mallery grabbed him by the sleeve. Tom looked down into startling eyes the color of polished chrome. "You better look after her, Riddle. Or I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life wishing you were dead."

Tom sighed. He certainly respected both Mallery and Granger as potential allies or foes, but honestly. "I don't enjoy being threatened, Mallery. Yet you and your pretty little friend are quite fond of it, especially in regards to me." He brushed Mallery's hand from his robes and looked at him coolly.

Mallery's return look was terrifyingly cold. "You'll find that idle threats are not synonymous with my name. Hermione's neither."

Tom smiled, feeling the rush of a challenge. "Mine neither, Mister Mallery. And keep in mind that this is my school, my home, my city — believe me when I say that I can do as much damage to you as you as you can to me. So, if we're done posturing for the day…?"

Mallery just stared at him. "Not a scratch, Riddle."

"I'm pretty sure Granger can look after herself," Tom hissed menacingly. "But my future depends entirely upon my performance at Hogwarts, and I'm not about to let some brash, idiotic girl with a death wish ruin that for me." He yanked the door open and threw Mallery one last look of disdain. "Nothing will happen to her. You have my bloody word. Now please, find a wand before you become completely useless."

Mallery grunted, whether in amusement or insult or a mixture of both, Tom couldn't tell. He let the door slam behind him, and relished the feeling of the chilly autumn wind on his face as he stepped into the crowd that milled through Diagon Alley, following the curly-haired girl with the blood red cloak towards the ice cream store. He couldn't help but think of Little Red Riding Hood.

Did that make him the big bad wolf, then?

"Granger!" he called out. "Wait up, would you?"

She stopped in the middle of the cobblestone street and looked back at him, her cheeks flushed with the wind and her eyes bright with the thrill of intrigue and adventure. "We haven't got all day, Riddle. Try to keep up."

He scowled and bumped her with his shoulder. She huffed and reached over to pinch his arm. He grabbed her hand, lightning fast, and yanked her to a stop.

"That permission thing goes both ways, you know," he said, using his grip to draw her up to her toes, forcing her to catch herself with her free hand against his chest. Merlin, she was warm. "Why don't you just say that touching you is off limits to begin with? Why have you put conditions with it, rather than just barring it completely?" He leaned down and skimmed his lips over the skin in front of her ear, and felt her tremble involuntarily against him. "Saying that you won't let me touch you without your permission implies that you will eventually allow it." He pulled back to look into her eyes, bringing his free hand around to rest on her waist. "You need to be more decided when you make your rules. They need to be absolute. So, I can either touch you, or I can't. But putting the term permission with it makes you seem coy."

Hermione pushed herself away from him with a burning glare. "Fine: you can't touch me. Ever. Is that clear enough?" she hissed.

Tom smiled at her slowly, watching in rapture as her chest heaved and her cheeks burned raspberry and amaranth. His lips tingled where they'd brushed her skin. "Crystal clear." He started walking, and as he passed her, he paused and leaned down. "The only thing is, I don't believe it." He pulled back again, staring at her eyes, watching as panic and uncertainty flashed through the bright flecks of chestnut and mahogany. "And I have a hard time following rules when they aren't properly enforced." He skimmed a hand under her cloak, brushing the backs of his fingers against her stomach.

He pulled back, and brushed past her, his hands warm and tingling from where he'd touched her. He turned back when he noticed she wasn't following. "Well, are you coming or not?" he asked smartly. He looked over her shoulder quickly, noticing that the man that had been watching them was strolling casually their way, looking in the store windows as he passed. "Brimbleberry tends to sell out come noon. You won't want to miss your chance."

She merely looked at him, her face inscrutable, before pulling her cloak further around her to fight off the chill and hurrying after him, once again drawing near to his side. He internally purred in satisfaction. He was a patient man, when it came to most things. Though his cock was screaming at him to get on with it, to just fuck her up against the wall of the nearest side street, his brain was calculating just how much time and effort he would need to put forth in order to seduce Hermione Granger into his bed. It was more than just wanting her physically, of course; it was the desire to either have her on his side, totally loyal to him…or to get close enough that she would never see the killing blow as it fell to snuff out her life. What route he decided to take would depend entirely on her level of acquiescence — or resistance. He would have to determine that at a later time.

When they got to Florean Fortescue's, they went inside, shuffling around to avoid being pressed too far into the mass of people that were waiting to order. "Merlin," Hermione said lowly, looking around. He could see the panic of being confined into a small, crowded space flicker to life in her eyes. "Crowded much?"

Tom shrugged, and then scowled as someone bumped into his shoulder and two children squirmed by, stepping on his toes. "Apparently."

A couple with a small child came in behind them, pushing them further into the line. Tom somehow ended up pressed to Hermione's back, unable to move left or right as people crammed the space around them.

He leaned down to speak into her ear. "I'm starting to think that this wasn't worth it," he said, hissing in annoyance as someone else jostled him further into her back. With the desire running rampant through his veins, it was a terrible idea for his groin to be almost flush against her arse. He tamped down his lust, focusing instead on peering out the windows. His eyes narrowed when he spotted the stalker lurking outside once again.

"Brimbleberry is always worth it," Hermione hummed, turning her head slightly so that he could hear her. Her ridiculous hair brushed his neck and chin, and the scent that he was starting to both anticipate and hate wafted into his nose. "And I see him too. He has gang tattoos on his hand. Can you spot them?"

Tom's nostrils flared. "If I look, it'll be too obvious. What do they look like?"

"Russian," she replied softly. "It's either Grindelwald, or, less likely, we've caught the eye of Anton Chekov."

Tom snorted. "The Russian mobster out of St. Petersburg?"

Hermione shrugged. "Those are the only things I can think of. Lao Feng wouldn't come over this far for a couple of escaped soldiers, and the Ministry wouldn't employ someone with gang affiliations."

Tom pressed forward, glaring at the people behind him as the crowded him farther into her lithe form. "Of course, the Ministry has some questionable contacts when you look behind the scenes. The British government isn't exactly squeaky clean."

"No, I suppose you're right." She smirked, and Tom battled with his own bodily urges as she shifted and her hip brushed his upper thigh. He swallowed.

They reached the front of the line, and Hermione looked back at him, her cheeks faintly pink. Whether it was from his close proximity or from the heat of the crowded shop he couldn't be sure, but he felt similarly flustered.

"What flavor do you want?" she asked.

"Chocolate."

She quirked her lips. "Just chocolate? Not mint chocolate chip, or chocolate banana, or chocolate peanut butter?" she teased.

He raised his eyebrows, staring down at her amusedly. "I'm a man of simple tastes, Hermione." He leaned down close to her ear. "I have rather…basic desires."

She cleared her throat and turned away. "It's not working, you know."

Tom cocked his head. "What's not working?" he asked as she ordered them two ice creams on cones. They shuffled their way towards the exit, once again having to squeeze through dozens of people clamoring for the sweet treat.

They finally broke out of the shop and breathed the cool, fresh air of fall once more. "Your attempts to fluster me."

He chuckled, watching the Russian man from the corner of his eye. "You're a most convincing liar, Miss Granger, but not convincing enough, I'm afraid." He took her arm, and he counted it as a small victory when she didn't protest, merely walked with him down a narrow side street close to Knockturn Alley. He watched her peripherally as she began to methodically lick her cone of sherbet. He dug into his own to distract himself from the image of her pink lips and tongue caressing the scoop of bright purple as they would a lover.

He heard the sound of footsteps behind them. "Not a very subtle fellow, is he?"

He got no response. He felt her hand leave his arm, and when he looked to his right, she was gone.

He did not panic. He could still hear the slow footsteps of the man behind him, so he knew she hadn't been taken. She'd just…disappeared. And somehow he knew it was completely intentional.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Granger," he murmured lowly, scanning the area for any sign of her. He noticed a small crack in the wall, just enough for a thin person to fit into — he didn't look too closely, immediately catching on to her plan.

Whistling, he strode further down the alley at a leisurely pace and continued to snarf down his ice cream, watching as a rat skittered in front of his shoes. He sneered in disgust. "Bloody vermin," he muttered, kicking another one of the foul beasts out of his way.

Suddenly, as he reached the dead end of the alley, he felt a wand press into the base of his neck. He fingered his own, which sat in his pocket.

A low, gravelly voice with a heavy Russian accent spoke from behind him. "Where is the girl?"

Tom dropped what was left of his ice cream cone and turned, holding his hands up, knowing that he wouldn't be able to draw his wand quick enough before the man could hex him. "I'm not sure where she went," he said casually, looking into the man's dark eyes and smirking. "She's quite slippery, you know?"

"You are lying!" The man pressed his wand further into Tom's neck. The tip of the walnut twig burned a circle into the skin above his collarbone. He hissed. He was just about to knock the man's wand out of his hand when the magical tool went flying.

Hermione shimmered into being behind the Russian, dispelling her disillusionment charm and smiling as the spy whipped around in surprise. Tom took the opportunity to cuff him on the side of the head, and the man fell to his knees.

Hermione used her wand to flip the man flat on his back, and Tom thought he heard something crack. The spy groaned in pain. She pressed the heel of her boot into his neck, rendering him immobile.

She looked up to Tom. "Thanks for being the bait," she teased, grinning. The white shine of her teeth and the appearance of the dimple on her cheek and the flash of her bright eyes were like a sucker punch to the gut.

"Glad to know I make such a good damsel in distress," he replied dryly, rolling his eyes when she beamed even more. He leaned down and grabbed her knee, removing her foot from the man's throat. Her thigh quivered. He let his palm linger for a moment in the crook of her leg, before skimming his fingers over the puckered scars on her calf and removing his hand from her skin. He reached down and hauled the man up by his collar. The spy looked at them both hatefully.

"I'm not alone, you know," he said, his accent slurring his words. He spat at Hermione, and Tom felt rage rise in his chest as the spittle landed on her jaw. She slowly brought the sleeve of her cloak up to wipe it off; and then promptly punched the man in the cheek, causing the skinny wizard to crash back into Tom, who promptly took him by the arms and twisted them behind his back, relishing the grunts of discomfort as he bent the man's elbows farther than what was comfortable. Tom heard something crunch as her blow landed, and wasn't sure if it was from her bones breaking or the Russian's.

Hermione smiled at the man, patting his injured cheek. "I'm counting on it, mudak," she said lowly.

"Suka," he snarled, lunging out of Tom's grip — but Tom was much stronger than the scrappy little man, and held him back with minimal effort, especially considering the fact that Tom was almost positive that one of the spy's vertebra was damaged.

She said something in Russian, and Tom narrowed his eyes. So she was multilingual, as well. Just another thing to add to the stack of oddities that made up one Hermione Granger.

The man fought against Tom's grip again, and Tom sighed, rolling his eyes. "If you're quite finished riling him up…"

She cleared her throat. "Right. Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away." She patted the man on the cheek. "What is your name, podonok?"

He snarled, but did not answer. She rolled her eyes, and Tom thought he may have fallen in love with her a little bit when she pointed her wand at the scrawny Russian and muttered "Imperio."

That is, if Tom was capable of feeling love. But he wasn't, so it translated more into a heavy dose of respect and an even heavier dose of lust.

The man went still in his hold. Hermione cleared her throat. "Let's try this again. What is your name?"

The man looked to be struggling internally, but he still did not answer. He heaved in shaky breaths, and started to tremble in Tom's hold. Hermione sighed, and released him from her spell. She looked over the spy's shoulder and met Tom's dark eyes with her own. "He's under an Unbreakable Vow. He can't tell us anything. However," she continued, narrowing her eyes and stepping closer, slapping a hand over the man's mouth as he made to spit at her again. "Ah, yes. I thought I spied Grindelwald's mark on you," she murmured, her eyes lighting up with discovery as she used the tip of her wand to push his long, lank hair back from his ears. There, just behind his ear in faint grey ink, sat Grindelwald's infamous symbol. "Rather odd for old Gellert to put his brand on you where so many could accidentally see."

"Not really Grindelwald's style, unless he's staging an outright attack," Tom said, meeting her eyes. "Intentional, then?"

Hermione's laugh was low and hoarse and tasted of a sort of dark insanity that flitted across his tongue and then away again. Her eyes were hot and hard and wicked. "Oh, I think Grindelwald is fond of sending messages." She cocked her head, and then pressed her wand to the spy's chest. "How about a little message of our own?"

The man's black eyes widened. "Chto vy —"

"Sanguifrigidum."

Tom watched curiously as a pulse of sparkling silvery-blue light traveled from the tip of her wand into the man's chest. He shivered briefly, and then went still. "What did you do to me?" he asked, his accent thicker with his anxiety.

Hermione smiled sweetly, and then promptly handed him back his wand, stepping back and keeping her own pink one trained at his face. "Don't worry. You can return to your master and report back to him what you saw today — but unfortunately none of us will be going with you. I'm afraid you and your partner will have to disappoint him this time." She stepped aside, and motioned for Tom to let the man go.

He glared at her. Tom wasn't used to taking orders.

She winked at him, however, and the smirk on her face was entirely too sinful to resist. He dropped his hands from around the older man's arms, and the Russian stumbled forward, wincing as his injured back pained him. His eye socket and cheek were bruising rapidly from where Hermione had punched him.

He turned and stepped away from them, walking backwards with his wand arm outstretched in front of him, looking like a startled deer. When he got to the first bend in the alley, he turned and took off back towards Diagon Alley, hobbling as he rounded the corner.

Tom whirled on Hermione. "Why did you let him go?"

She turned her face up to look at him, cool determination and satisfaction gleaming in her eyes and showing in the lines on her face. "I spelled his blood to freeze," she said lowly. "He'll be dead in less than three hours."

Tom inhaled sharply, looking at her as hot desire and plain greed swept through his veins, pounding in his ears and making his vision hazy. Mine, he thought. Mine, mine, mine. "And there isn't a countercurse?" he asked in a murmured tone.

"Oh, there is a countercurse," she verified, nodding and looking down the alley towards the direction the man had run in.

"Then won't Grindelwald be able to save him?" Tom asked frowning.

"Not likely," she answered, twirling her lovely wand through her fingers dexterously. "The spell is one of my own invention; therefore only I know the countercurse."

"A spell of your own invention," he repeated, staring at her as if in a trance. He moved towards her, backing her up until she was against the wall. He crowded her thin form up against the stone wall of the alley, putting one hand on the wall next to her head as the other proceeded to point his wand into the tender skin of her cheek. "I should turn you in to the Ministry," he murmured, flicking at a piece of her unruly hair with his wand. "You're far too dangerous to be roaming about the streets of England unchecked."

"Is that so?" she said, her voice husky. "Funny, because I feel the same way about you." She smiled up at him, and he felt her hand slip underneath his robes and her wand press against the base of his spine. She drew it teasingly up and down over his Oxford shirt, and he shuddered, narrowing his eyes. "You know, I know a spell that will wrap all the tendons in your back around your spine and squeeze it until the bones shatter," she mentioned casually; the nonchalant tone of her voice endeared her to him. "The only pitfall is that you have to have your wand in the exact position when you want to cast it. Luckily, you've given me the perfect opportunity." She dug her wand in even deeper, and he grunted in discomfort. "It's a spell that I didn't invent, however, and I'm not quite sure if I remember the countercurse." She looked thoughtful. "You know, I might remember it, if I can think back to where I learned it in my fourth year of school…"

Tom ran the tip of his wand down the delicate skin of her throat, tracing it over her jugular, which he noticed was pulsing ever so slightly with her increased heart rate. "Would you really kill me, Hermione?"

Her eyes flashed with humor, and she smiled, bringing her lips up to trace the outer shell of his ear. He went rigid when he felt her tongue flick against his earlobe ever so briefly before she hovered her mouth over his ear, her breath warm and smelling like brimbleberry sherbet. "In a heartbeat, Tom."

Tom believed her. He pressed her more firmly against the wall, spearing his hands into her hair and pulling her head back to look at her face. "Then what's stopping you?" he asked, pressing his thumbs below her ears and flushing hot when her body trembled and went taut. His fingers and his wand were tangled in her hair. "Tell me, Miss Granger. Why don't you curse me right now and wash your hands clean of me? Hmm?"

Her eyes flashed with uncertainty, but it was gone in an instant, replaced with wry humor. She brought her free hand up to tap his chin with her pointer finger. "Because you're far too interesting a specimen to waste, Tom Riddle," she said, her eyes roving around his face before settling on his lips for a moment, licking her own subconsciously. He watched her little pink tongue trace the contours of her oddly perfect teeth, and wished it were his own. "And pretty, to boot."

He pulled back from her, frowning. He should have felt triumphant at the praise; but all he felt was a sort of discomfort and cold anticipation. Her gaze traveled back up to his eyes as she pushed off of the wall after him, withdrawing her wand from beneath his robes. The look in her eyes was not at all kind. Once again, he felt like he was under her microscope.

She scooted away from him and lifted up the neck of her shirt to slide her wand slowly and very purposefully under the strap of her brassiere, teasing him just as effectively as he had teased her. So she'd caught on to his game, had she?

"Besides," she continued, looking up at him through her lashes. "Somehow I get the feeling that you might give me the fight of my life if I were to try. And it's so much nicer being friends, don't you think?" She turned away, heading back down the dim, narrow street.

Tom cocked his head. "And are we friends, Hermione?" he asked, his voice thick with residual desire.

She looked back at him and waited for him to catch up to her before moving again. "Or something like that."

He smirked. "Glad to know I'm on your good side. Tell me, then: why do you have a problem with Rosier? I could practically taste your dislike for him yesterday morning at breakfast. Speaking of which — very bold move, a Gryffindor sitting in the snake pit. I'm not sure it's ever been done before."

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not buying in to this house rivalry thing," she said casually, daintily stepping over a random pile of grayish fabric and the host of rats that were gnawing at it. She looked unfazed. "I'm too old for that shit. It's beyond trivial. As for Rosier," she continued, successfully making him feel like a child for the first time ever. "He's brutish, and stupid, and I've met his like before," she murmured, looking up at him with haunted eyes. "Don't pretend you feel much different. He's a pawn, Tom. People like Lestrange and Nott and Mulciber are intelligent, independent, capable of making informed decisions. They fear you, and respect you, but they're in your little club because they want to be. Conan —" She stopped here, and smiled. "You should give him a bit more credit. He's the perfect tool. Unnoticeable, coolly logical, and wicked clever. He keeps his cards close to his chest, and excels at flying under the radar, but you'd do well to pay a bit more attention to him. He likes you. He's freethinking, but he looks up to you. You can use that."

Tom peered at her curiously as they stepped out into the light of Diagon Alley. "And Dolohov? I noticed you don't like him much, either, though you haven't interacted with him enough for me to really put my finger on it."

He barely noticed the twitch of her eye, but he still caught it. He'd have to look into that later. "Intelligent. Calculating. Loyal to you because he likes what you preach and practice and knows without a doubt that you are far more powerful than he. But he's without conscience. He has no boundaries."

"I like that he has no conscience," Tom countered, thinking of his menacing, dark-haired follower. "That can be useful."

Hermione shrugged. "Or that can be dangerous." She stopped suddenly and pointed to a child that walked past with his parents. "Kill him," she said bluntly.

"Beg pardon?" Tom asked, staring at her with a frown. Just what was she playing at?

"He bumped into you in the ice cream store," she said, shrugging and looking up at him with those entrancing eyes, now without the humor that he found so interesting. Now they were dead serious, and full of sadness, scorn and a certain amount of indifference. "You should kill him."

Tom scoffed. "Bumping into someone is hardly a death sentence, Granger," he said, shielding his eyes from the sun and staring after the little blond boy as he disappeared around the corner. "I fail to see your point regarding Antonin."

He jolted a bit when Hermione threaded her wrist through the crook of his elbow, but held it rigid as he escorted her back towards the wand store. "Dolohov wouldn't hesitate to kill that child, Tom, if he felt he could get away with it. Surely you know this."

Tom nodded. "Yes."

She lifted her right hand and gestured around them. "All of these people — imagine them dead. The buildings — imagine them destroyed. Get the image of blood running down walls and rats chewing on the dead bodies littering the stones. Imagine the silence of it all, and the rank smell of death." She looked at him askance. "Does it bother you?"

He shrugged. Might as well be honest. "Not particularly, no."

"That doesn't surprise me," she returned. "Now answer me this: do you want it?"

His lips quirked down. "No. Doesn't exactly sound pleasant. And it seems pointless."

"It's not at all pleasant. Not to mention senseless and unnecessary." She tightened her hold on his arm. "Now imagine Dolohov. Do you think he would feel the same?"

Tom frowned, seeing her point. "No."

"That's my problem with him," she said quietly, sincerely. "Dolohov wouldn't just not mind it — he would relish in it. He would see it as an experiment; a chance to test himself, to see how many people he could kill and which methods cause the most pain. Violence for the sake of violence is an ugly, wretched thing. Rosier," she continued, stepping over a particularly large cobblestone, "is just naturally stupid and in possession of a nasty countenance. His arrogance is too obvious — not like the subtlety of the rest of your pureblood friends. He flaunts his name and title and oh-so-pure blood around like badges of honor, but he's magically inferior, intellectually lacking and in need of a serious lesson on tact. He's painfully juvenile." She paused. "Not to mention he looks at me like I'm a piece of meat. I don't care for it."

"Thoros looks at you the same way," Tom commented amusedly, ruminating on her observations of his Knights of Walpurgis.

"Yes, but Thoros is classy about it," she responded, her voice heavy with cynicism. "He was blessed with all the subtlety that Rosier was denied at birth. It's rather…refreshing," she continued. "Rosier fucks and discards, I imagine." Tom jolted at her use of such foul language, his ears burning and his cock twitching as such an ugly word left her pretty bowed lips. "I bet that Thoros first woos, then fucks, then very slowly extracts himself from any commitment, all the while making the object of his affections feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Girls likely spend weeks dreaming about him." She sneered. "Girls probably spend weeks crying when they realize they've been so crassly used by Rosier."

Tom grinned, immensely pleased with her easy assessment of his followers. "I'm afraid to ask what you think of me."

Hermione smirked. "Oh, you're the worst of the lot," she said teasingly. "I can't even begin to describe you, Tom Riddle. There's far too much for me to sift through, and you're a lot harder to read than most."

He stopped in front of Ollivander's, conscious of the quicksilver eyes that had taken notice of them through the window. "Then you are having the same difficulty with me as I am having with you, Hermione Granger," he said, reaching up to roll a loose curl through his fingers before tucking it back behind one of her hairpins.

She leaned away from him, looking wary. Her eyes were guarded, but not hostile like they'd been before. He saw calculation there, and caution, and more than a little curiosity. And he was not oblivious to the way her eyes wandered his form when she thought he wasn't looking. Her attraction for him was palpable — but strangely conflicted. But what, exactly, was she afraid of?

"Draco says I'm an open book," she murmured, looking a bit dazed before brushing past him and opening the door to the shop.

He entered after her. "Yes, but Draco has known you for years. I've known you for barely two weeks. I haven't had the time to learn the nuances of your expressions yet."

Mallery stood upon their reentrance, looking Hermione over and patting her curls in a gesture that was so comfortable and familiar that Tom's teeth literally ached. The blond looked over in his direction. "It's all in the eyes, Riddle," he drawled, looking at Hermione fondly. "But even then. You know I actually had to teach her to not wear her heart on her sleeve all the time like a bloody idiot?" he said, his cheek dimpling as he smiled at his childhood friend.

Hermione scowled. "I wasn't that bad," she said, her voice holding tones of stubbornness and petulance that had both Tom and Mallery sharing a look. Once again, despite their dislike for each other, they seemed to be on the same wavelength. "Did you find a wand?" she asked eagerly.

Ollivander came striding into the front room, looking triumphant. He handed Mallery a piece of parchment, and smiled over at Hermione and Tom. "Took him four tries, but we found a nice match," the old wandmaker said. "Just sign at the bottom, Mister Mallery — it's just to verify that I've received payment for the wand, and it goes into Ministry records so that they know who it belongs to if you were to become separated. I hope it will serve you well for many years."

Tom felt Hermione flinch next to him, and saw her hand tremble. Moisture welled in her eyes before it was wicked away by her thick eyelashes. That was when he remembered that Mallery was basically living out a death sentence. Tom had charmed the details of Mallery's condition from Madam Soranus — the pale boy wouldn't likely live to see the New Year.

Draco smiled at Ollivander and shook the man's hand, outwardly unaffected. "I appreciate it, sir. You have a wonderful day."

"See you this Thursday, Mister Ollivander," Hermione said, her voice strong and her eyes dry.

"I won't forget!" the older wizard said with a wave. He nodded his goodbyes to Tom, and the three exited the store, stepping into the cool air and basking in the warmth of the sun.

Draco laid a comforting hand on Hermione's shoulder, but she quickly shrugged it off and gave him a warning look. "Well," she said sternly. "Let's see it, then."

Mallery sighed and looked up to the sky. "Can't we find some food, first?" he grumbled grumpily. "I need to eat. I'm feeling faint."

Tom smirked as Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. Pansy."

Tom might've missed the way they both stiffened for a moment, their eyes seeking out the cobblestones. Hermione was the first to shake off whatever odd trance they'd been under within seconds. She looked expectantly at Tom. "Show us the way, oh fearless leader," she said, giving him a shallow bow. Then it was his turn to roll his eyes. He turned and headed back down towards Fortescue's, bypassing it in favor of the little cafe across the street. The name on the sign read "The Quivering Quill" and it's whole front was a wall of windows, revealing the many patrons within.

Mallery spoke up as Tom opened the door. "The Quivering Quill, the Leaky Cauldron…what's next, the Angry Bludger?" he muttered, clutching tiredly at his crutch as he stepped over the threshold.

Tom could not help but chuckle. Hermione grinned, catching his eye. "I was thinking that the Harping Howler had a nice ring to it."

"Nice one, Hermione," Draco said, smiling. "Do you remember Molly's howler to me a couple of years ago?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with humor that Tom hadn't seen him express; it look odd on his face. He had a visage that was prone to seriousness and anger. Laughter made the lines around his eyes smooth out, and he looked younger and more carefree.

Hermione giggled. "Draco Lucius Mallery!" She imitated, putting her hands on her hips. "How dare you leave this safe house without telling anyone where you're going! You'll be the death of me, you foolish, thoughtless child! You get back here this instant!"

Mallery laughed. "That is a frighteningly accurate impression, Hermione. Please, never do it again."

Granger giggled, and the sound was…odd. Light and tinkling and not at all like the throaty laugh he'd heard before, the one that always seemed to drip with cynicism and scorn. This was different. It was born of true, light-hearted amusement.

The fact that it was Draco Mallery that had managed to draw it from her made Tom inexplicably irritated. Knowing that they both had this history – this connection forged from years of friendship and braving danger together – made Tom's blood boil, because he could never have that with her.

He imagined her as she was then, only with him. He imagined that sort of familiarity between them, imagined the little glances and touches that they would share. It was fascinating, how she and Mallery could speak volumes with their eyes alone – how they could understand each other with a single glance. That sort of connection was a rare thing to behold, and Tom wondered, suddenly, if they had slept together.

The thought came unbidden to his mind, and he saw red for a moment before coming back to his senses.

Foolish, he thought. You're being foolish. She is nothing – just another useful trinket to add to your collection.

In fact, he wanted both of them. Granger and Mallery, by his side, among his Knights – they would be a powerful addition. Of course, Mallery was dying, so perhaps not him…besides, the handsome blond was a suspicious sort, and Tom was well aware that the other man did not like him.

It had nothing to do with petty jealousy, as it was with many of the other males that disliked him – no, Mallery had plenty of looks and plenty of confidence to go with them; in fact, he might have been the most attractive person Tom had ever seen, save himself. It was something deeper, and more fundamental. And in addition, Tom was almost certain that Draco could sense his attraction to his best friend, and he was protective of her. The seriousness with which he'd charged Tom with her safety earlier in Ollivander's had been very serious indeed.

All in all, Mallery was an intense sort of fellow, and Tom knew that as long as the other boy was around, his access to Hermione might be somewhat…limited.

Good thing, then, that he wouldn't likely make it to Yule.

"Table for three, dears?"

Tom looked up. He smiled at the hostess who was addressing them. "Oh hello, Mrs. Diggle. How are you on this fine morning?"

Mrs. Diggle, an aging, portly woman with a shock of red hair, looked at him in wonder. "Tom? Tom Riddle? Is that you?"

"In the flesh, Madam," he replied with a fake smile, tolerating it when she came over to pat him on the cheek. He didn't curse her to hell and back because, well, they were in public. Otherwise…

"Oh Tom, it's so good to see you again," she said fondly. "It feels like I haven't seen you in ages. And look how you've grown! You must be a foot taller than last I saw you!"

As she fawned over Tom, he met Hermione's eyes. She and Mallery both looked far too amused, and he narrowed his eyes at them. "You just saw me this past July, Mrs. Diggle – surely I can't be that much taller?"

The inane woman giggled again. "Oh, Tom. How I've missed you. I'll have to tell my husband that you're here – he'll want to come visit with you, of course. And would you like a booth or a table?"

"A booth please, Madam," he replied, rolling his eyes when she turned her back to grab three menus. "Preferably one towards the back. And is Marian still working here?"

"Oh yes, dear, our lovely Marian is still here," Mrs. Diggle said, winking at him. "Shall I send her out to be your waitress today?"

"Please."

"Ooh, she'll be just delighted to see you," she said, motioning for them to follow her. She made no move to inquire after his two companions – which was just as well, because it would just delay her removal from their company even further.

The middle-aged woman walked them briskly back to the far corner booth, laying their menus out for them on the table covered in a long white tablecloth. The booth was covered in red and blue striped fabric, and shielded from anyone who might want to spy on them through the windows. Predictably, Granger scooted in and Mallery sat next to her, leaving Tom to sit on the other side of the booth. His knees brushed hers under the table, and he saw her very purposefully sit at an angle to avoid further contact. He smiled.

"She'll be right with you, dear Tom," Mrs. Diggle said with a cheery smile, and then left their table, heading back towards the front.

"She's…energetic," Mallery said, his eyebrows climbing up on his forehead. "Wouldn't you agree, dear Tom?"

Hermione burst out laughing, and Tom scowled. He leaned forward. "Shall I make it a point to introduce you to her? I'm sure she'd be just pleased as punch to meet you, Mallery. And then you'll be 'dear Draco'. Come now, it won't take but a minute," Tom said, moving as if to stand up.

Mallery shook his head, looking reluctant. "All right, point taken. I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

Tom smirked. "That's what I thought. Now, let's see your new wand, shall we?"

Draco reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out. It was of a very dark wood, a dusky brown in color that bordered on black. It was simple, with a series of striated grooves as the only handle.

"Blackthorn and dragon heartstring, fourteen inches," Draco said, staring at it with an odd expression on his face. "Seems odd, for it to feel so familiar in my hand – after having used so many that weren't quite right."

"Well you've blown through five wands, Draco," Hermione said, holding her hand out. Mallery placed his wand in her hand without hesitation, a sign of immense trust that Tom could not even fathom. He would never hand his wand over so willingly. "Only one of them, the first one, was even given specifically for you. This is the first wand in five years that actually chose you from a store. Of course it feels unfamiliar. I imagine this one will actually work."

"And by work, you mean it will be able to cast dark curses without hesitation," Tom said, tilting his head. It was not a question.

Draco stared at him with those unnerving metallic eyes, and smirked. "Precisely. Would you like to be my test subject? Just to make absolute sure that I can cast the Unforgiveables without any trouble, of course."

"Of course," Tom murmured with soft smile. "Only those three?"

"Oh no, I've got quite the collection of nasty curses I could throw your way," Mallery continued, fingering his new wand when Hermione gave it back to him. "Most of them discovered or invented by my brilliant friend here, mind you." He jerked his head towards Granger.

"I do love a good dark curse," she said, winking at Tom. "In fact, Draco, our little spy friend is on his way back to Grindelwald now, under the effects of what will probably prove to be a very strong blood-freezing curse."

Draco shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Bloody disgusting, Granger." His brow furrowed. "You're sure it was Grindelwald?"

"His symbol was tattooed beneath the spy's ear," Tom drawled, picking up the water that had magically appeared in front of him. "I'd say there's reasonable evidence."

"Good morning!"

Tom turned, and smiled slowly at the blushing waitress that had sidled up to their table. She was looking at Tom with something like complete devotion. Tom hid his disgust with a look of polite interest. "Hello, Marian. Nice to see you again. Doing well?"

She swallowed, and fiddled with the end of her long brown braid. "Yes, of course. No complaints. And how about you? Are you excited to be finishing up school soon?"

"Anxious to be done with it," he answered. He winked at her, and her doe-brown eyes flashed with pleasure. High spots of color burned on her lily-white cheeks. "I hear you're going to be our server today. Marian, these are my two friends and fellow classmates, Draco Mallery and Hermione Granger," he introduced.

Tom watched with interest as the slim, pretty girl took notice of Mallery for the first time, and something within him twanged in displeasure as she blushed even further, staring at Mallery as if she'd just found God. It wasn't jealousy, per say – merely the discomfort that came with the realization that he was no longer the only devastatingly good-looking man on the streets. But that was fine. Tom wasn't worried. He had something that Mallery didn't have – years of contacts in Britain, and flawless charisma. Mallery was charming, certainly, and obviously knew the ins and outs of social graces, but he did not inspire like Tom did. He was too cold, and he wasn't interested, as Tom was, in faking warmth.

Mallery smiled at the waitress, and took her slender hand in his own, kissing the knuckles. "It's a pleasure."

Tom saw how her hand trembled. Stupid, foolish, flighty girl.

Hermione reached across Draco and shook Marian's hand. "It's so nice to meet you, Marian. You're as delightful as Tom promised us you were."

Tom maintained his composure, but only barely.

"I…oh." Marian blushed, wiping her sweaty hands on her apron. "Well thank you, Tom," she said shyly.

"Of course," he said graciously, finding Hermione's foot with his own under the table and pressing down on her toes. He saw her jerk in discomfort. "I just knew we had to come here for lunch today, and I mentioned that you were an excellent waitress."

"He raved about you, really," Hermione added cheerily, and her eyelid twitched as Tom reached down under the tablecloth and dug his fingers into the warm skin of her thigh.

He ignored the fact that his middle finger was just at the lacy edge of her delicate stocking, and that the tip of his pointer finger was up against her velvet garter, and that the bare skin of her thigh was decidedly hairless. Which was odd. Odd, and utterly arousing. He'd heard rumors of muggle girls across the Atlantic doing something similar – shaving the hair from their legs to simulate the look of stockings, since all nylon was being used in the war – but never had it occurred to him that it might be so appealing.

"Well, I'm so flattered," Marian said, rolling up onto the balls of her feet and folding her hands together in front of her. She was once again gazing at Tom with that adoring expression, except this time it was hopeful, as well. "Erm, have you three decided what you'd like to eat?"

Hermione looked over to Tom, triumph in her eyes. She seemed to be actively ignoring the fact that his hand was clamped around her leg. "What's good, Tom?" she asked coyly, smirking.

"Everything on their brunch menu is delicious, Hermione," he said, emphasizing the word "delicious" and watching in satisfaction as she swallowed. "However, I tend to go with the Quill plate, which is basically your complete breakfast – eggs, toast, sausage, pancakes. That is, if you're that hungry. Otherwise, the eggs benedict is good." To punctuate his statement, he swept his thumb along the crease of the back of her knee in a firm stroke, smoothing over the delicate material of her stocking. She jolted, and that's when she finally reacted – she reached down and slammed her hand onto his wrist, digging her nails into his skin. Once again, the skin of her palm was unusually hot.

He slid his finger under the strap of her garter and snapped it gently, laughing internally when her leg jumped, and then pulled his hand away, bringing it back to his lap. Little indents riddled his skin where her nails had dug into his flesh. The slight pain was exquisite, combined with the lingering heat of her palm and the soft feel of her flesh that was now forever imprinted on his memory.

"I'll have the eggs benedict," Hermione ground out, never looking away from Tom, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes that burned with flecks of topaz and auburn.

"Excellent choice," Marion said, too dense to notice the tension at the table. "And for you, Mister Mallery?"

"Call me Draco, please," the blond said with a smile.

"All right, er, Draco," Marian said, smiling nervously.

"I'll take the Quill plate and the eggs benedict," he said.

"Oh wow, you must be hungry," Marian said with a tremulous smile.

"Very," Draco agreed. "And two coffees – Hermione needs one as well."

Granger looked away from Tom long enough to elbow Draco in the ribs. "Are you implying that I get cranky when I don't have caffeine?" she said sourly.

"Oh, I'm not implying anything," Draco said with a quick grin.

She grumbled. "Cream and sugar, too, if you will, Marian," she said, grimacing. "He is right."

Marian smiled. "You two seem so close. Did you grow up together? I thought I'd heard that you came from China? You're the talk of the town, you know."

Hermione and Draco both smiled tightly, and Tom sensed the atmosphere shift to one of discomfort. He spoke up.

"They did come from China, Marian," he said abruptly. "And are long-time friends, as well. I'll have the Quill plate, as usual, and a cup of Earl Grey."

Marian seemed to get the message, and she nodded. "All right, I'll just go tell the kitchen – and let Mister Diggle know you've come back to visit us, Tom. I'm sure he'll be most eager to visit with you, as long as the kitchen doesn't stay this busy." She turned with one last awkward look at Draco, and flounced back towards the kitchen.

"Here's to hoping the kitchen stays slammed," Tom muttered. He looked around, hoping that the crowd in the popular little café would continue to remain strong.

"Aw, Tom, but they all seem like such nice people," Hermione whined playfully. "And I didn't see a wedding band on Marian's finger – she's obviously unattached, and fancies the pants off of you."

Tom hissed at her. "That wasn't at all funny, Granger, what you just pulled back there."

Hermione only grinned at him.

"So," he said, moving on. "This project for Potions that Slughorn announced on Thursday morning – since you and Flynn are the only other pair in the class that are as proficient at brewing as Nott and myself, I figured the four of us should join up. He did say four to a group."

Hermione's eyes flashed in discomfort. "I…suppose that would work."

"You suppose?"

She cleared her throat. "I've brewed Polyjuice before many a time – I've gotten used to doing it, it's just tedious and takes quite a bit of time. Fire protection potion is a breeze. Amortentia is a bit of a challenge, though not terrible, and the antidote is even simpler. The Draught of Living Death, of course, will be the most difficult."

"I think we can manage," Tom said. "So you've brewed Polyjuice before, have you?"

"I've brewed all of them before," Hermione said haughtily. "I just have the most…memories…surrounding Polyjuice."

Draco looked sour, suddenly. "Don't think I haven't forgotten about second year, Granger."

"Oh come off it," she scoffed, nudging her friend in the shoulder. "You didn't even know. For years, you never knew that we'd tricked you with it –"

"Yes, until you saw fit to reveal to me in a fit of laughter years later that you had brewed it in the fucking lavatory –"

"Wait a moment," Tom said, holding up his hand. "You mean to say that you brewed Polyjuice as a second year? Successfully?" He stared at her, awaiting her answer. For surely not. Of course, Tom imagined that he could have figured it out at that age, if he'd been so inclined, but…Tom was extraordinary. It was not his ego speaking – he was one of just a handful of people on the planet that might have been able to brew Polyjuice potion as a twelve year old –

And then he remembered that in China they started school at age ten, and so she would have been eleven.

Fascinating.

Disturbing, too.

Hermione shrugged. "Like I said, it wasn't particularly hard – just tedious and time-consuming. But, back to the Potions project. Shall I take it to Raven, see what she thinks?"

"Please do," he confirmed. "Don't forget that we have to pick a sixth potion to do, and have to collect the ingredients for ourselves."

"Any thoughts on that?" she asked.

"A couple. What do you think?"

"You should be asking Draco," she said, jerking her head to the left. "He's quite the brewer. It's the only subject in school that he leveled with me grade wise, and it came far more naturally for him, too."

Mallery scowled. "Yes, thanks ever so for reminding me of the fact that you beat me in practically everything in school."

"Tell me, Hermione, is there anything you don't do well?" Tom asked, his voice low.

"Flying," Draco blurted out, before she could answer. "She's rubbish at flying. Can't even get a broom five feet off the ground. She'll get on a thestral, though –"

"– or a dragon, let it be said that that was my idea –"

"– yes, Hermione, fine, the stupid dragon – you know I wasn't even there for that, I was too busy being my badass self spying for you lot –"

"– oh please, Draco, you –"

"– so I'm not even sure if I believe that story –"

"How could you not believe it? There were multiple eyewitness accounts, surely not all of them were lying –"

Tom held his hands up, and, surprisingly, they both stopped and turned to look at him. Their eyes were wide, like they'd almost forgotten he was there.

Tom felt a bit…overwhelmed. They'd gone from potions, to brooms, to thestrals, and now dragons? They'd ridden a dragon?

"What about riding a dragon?" he asked quietly, aware that his face reflected his bemusement.

"Er – yeah," Granger said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Ukrainian Ironbelly – we were just..."

"Escaping," Draco finished. "Because what better way to get out of one of the most well-guarded places in the Orient than to fly out on the back of a bloody dragon?"

Tom raised his eyebrows. Hermione shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?" She cleared her throat, and looked at Draco. "Let's change the subject."

"Let's not," Tom said commandingly, his curiosity flaring to life. "I'd like to hear the rest."

Mallery had shut down completely. He looked at Tom dispassionately, all trace of humor and playfulness gone from his face. The transformation was instant. "The rest is classified. We were incredibly foolish to have brought it up."

Tom looked at them suspiciously, pursing his lips. "And why, exactly, would it be classified? China is quite far from here," he said silkily.

Mallery looked back at him coolly, unfazed. "Not as far as you might think."

"We were careless just now," Granger said softly. "Living in such a peaceful place, even for such a short time, has lulled us into a sense of security."

"False security," Draco said, his jaw clenched. "We might have left China behind, but I get the feeling Britain is just waiting to explode. Especially with Grindelwald's spies roaming the streets."

Hermione turned to Draco and said something in Mandarin, and Tom narrowed his eyes, irritated, as Draco responded. Never before had Tom thought it necessary to know more than English and French and a bit of German. Now he was seriously regretting having not learned as many languages as possible.

Hermione turned gratefully towards the table as a house elf delivered two coffees and a cup of Earl Grey to the table. Tom looked on in bemusement as she thanked the little elf kindly, to which it squeaked in surprise and popped away from the table hurriedly.

She lifted the cup of coffee to her nose and sniffed, closing her eyes in rapture. He watched carefully as she set it back down and poured perhaps a teaspoon's worth of cream in it, no sugar, and lifted it back up to her lips. Mallery took his coffee the exact opposite: no cream, two sugars.

"Well, aren't you going to fix yours?" Hermione asked, nodding to the cup of tea in front of him.

"I don't take anything in my tea," he said tightly, smiling politely at her.

"No milk?" Mallery said, his lips twitching. "What kind of a Brit are you?"

"The kind that doesn't like milk in his tea, apparently," Hermione said, frowning at Draco. "Leave off, Draco. I don't like milk in my tea, either."

"Yes, and it's bloody weird," the blond said back, shaking his head.

She rolled her eyes and looked to Tom. "A good cup of Earl Grey shouldn't be tainted by milk. Only a bit of sugar, or honey, if you're feeling the need for a bit of sweetness."

Tom raised his cup to her in salute. It was odd, how his heartbeat stumbled at the realization that they had something so trivial in common. "Precisely." He looked to Mallery. "Do you drink tea, Mister Mallery?"

Draco grunted. "I used to. Once I was introduced to the wonders of the coffee bean I had no reason to go back," he said, breathing in the strong smell of his drink and sipping at it carefully.

"You're welcome," Hermione said drily, smiling sardonically at her companion. Mallery merely rolled his eyes.

"I've only had coffee once. It was dreadful," Tom said conversationally, ignoring Marian when she returned with their food, a house elf at her side to assist her. He was aware that she set their plates down intentionally slowly, obviously wanting him to acknowledge her – he did not. Best to nip that little misunderstanding in the bud as quickly as possible. Granger was the only one to smile and thank the girl, and Marian looked a bit put out. Just as well.

"It takes some getting used to, if you've only ever had tea," Mallery responded mildly, looking at his two plates and rubbing his hands together greedily. Tom shook his head in amusement. "And it can be done wrong, whereas tea is much harder to mess up. Coffee beans can be roasted too long, or not enough, and can be brewed too strong or too weak. You'd be surprised at how many coffee haters simply haven't had good coffee." He paused. "Granger makes a decent pot of coffee. Give her a French press and let her work her magic, and you won't regret it."

"The secret, Tom, is how recently your beans have been roasted," she said, taking a sip. "That's the biggest factor that affects how good your coffee ends up." She took a bite of her eggs benedict, and closed her eyes in pleasure, licking a spare crumb from her top lip. "You're right, this is delicious."

He smiled at her attempt to use his own idea against him. The thing was, Tom didn't unsettle that easily. Sure, sometimes she made him uncomfortable in a different way – in the sense that he was in a certain amount of unexpected danger while in her presence – and he was certainly aroused by her, but he was not so easily embarrassed or made uncomfortable by sexual matters. And for all of her confidence, he got the feeling that she was not anywhere close to being as experienced as he was in the realm of carnal knowledge.

"I'm glad you like it," he said, his voice lowering as desire flushed hotly through his bloodstream. When Mallery made to grab for the check that Marian had dropped by the table, Tom snatched it, simultaneously taking a bite of his pancakes. "I insist."

"We're perfectly capable of paying our way, Riddle," Draco said, eyes narrowed.

"I'm well aware," Tom said, thinking back to the handful of galleons that Granger had laid on the bar at the Leaky. "However, Hermione quite generously bought my ice cream, and I seek to repay the favor."

"Be that as it may," Hermione said, summoning the check from his hand with a wiggle of her fingers, "you were kind enough to bring us here to Diagon Alley today, and also made very convincing bait for our little Russian friend earlier – agreeing to put yourself in danger for the sake of my curiosity. So, let us buy you brunch. We insist."

They both smirked at him, and he clenched his teeth, but shrugged anyway, conceding. "Fine. If you so desire."

They finished the rest of their meal making idle conversation – talk about politics, and the need for a werewolf registry (a thing to which Hermione was adamantly opposed), and quidditch (a subject that only mildly interested Tom – he could play fairly well, but elected to devote himself to other things), which made Draco's eyes shiny with interest and Hermione's dull with boredom. Never again did the subject dip into their excursions in China, and Tom, reluctantly, elected not to push his luck.

After lunch – and an annoyingly elaborate escape from Marian and the Diggles – they went to Eeylops Owl Emporium to get Draco an owl. There was one that stuck out in particular: a massive female eagle owl, unusual in a common owl shop. Mallery struck Tom as someone who liked to have the best of everything, and, predictably, he bought the owl for twenty-one galleons (bloody absurd) and named her Cinnamon (Tom couldn't help but think of Hermione's eyes).

Tom looked at his watch. It was half past one. "All done?" he said as they stood out on the street.

Hermione looked at Mallery. "Draco?"

The blond shrugged. "Can't think of anything else that I might need. Doubt I'll be able to ever ride a broom again," he said, looking dejected.

"You don't know that for certain," Hermione said softly, looking concerned. Mallery nodded, but didn't look convinced.

"Back to Hogwarts, then?" Tom said, squinting as the bright sunshine hit his eyes.

Hermione nodded, and strode back towards the Leaky Cauldron. "We floo back into Hogsmeade, correct?"

"Right," he confirmed, falling into easy step with his two odd companions. "Though any can floo out of the Headmaster's study with his permission, only he can floo back in. Same with all of the teachers' quarters."

"Makes sense," Hermione murmured, subtly scanning the streets for any sign of trouble. He noticed that Mallery did the same.

He opened the door to the pub for both of them, and he noticed that Mallery went in first, facing forward, and Hermione followed, twirling gracefully so that she could keep an eye on the street, not wanting her back to be exposed. Tom looked back as well as he closed the door behind them, automatically on alert now that he had first-hand encountered one of Grindelwald's spies. One of many, he suspected.

Hermione waved at Tom the barman as they strode towards the floo, and the nearly toothless man waved back eagerly. Mallery nodded to the older man, and Tom did the same, still bitter about sharing a name with someone so unremarkable.

Someday, when the world was ready for it, they would know him by a different name.

Hermione handed him the pot of floo powder, and instead of taking it from her palm he cupped the back of her hand with his own and grabbed a handful of the silvery sand. Her hand was so very small compared to his own.

Her eyes flashed in warning. "I trust you'll remove your person from the fireplace before one of us comes crashing into you?"

"I trust you'll wait more than two and a half seconds before following?" he said acidly.

Her eyelid twitched. "Why ever so, when our collision this morning was so delightful?" she said sardonically.

"My thoughts exactly," he replied lowly, his eyes serious, disregarding her sarcasm and responding to the comment at face value. He removed his hand from hers, and moved past her to throw the powder into the fireplace. He stepped up into the green flames, looked at his two companions one more time, and shouted "Three Broomsticks Inn."

Draco came in after him this time, his face expressionless but his body language indicative of extreme displeasure towards Tom – once again, his protectiveness of his female friend was palpable.

When Hermione spun through and stepped regally out of the fireplace like a queen exiting a stagecoach, head held high, Tom turned and moved towards the front door, nodding at the inn's owner, Mister Darrel Dodworth. The balding innkeeper nodded back, familiar with Tom and his status as Head Boy.

Outside, a carriage was waiting for them in a side alley, two thestrals standing there patiently. Predictably Hermione went to pat them both on the nose. Tom ignored them, as did Draco, and the two clambered into the carriage, followed by the frustratingly mysterious Granger, whose scent teased his nostrils as she bent her head low to avoid hitting it on the roof of the cart. She sat next to Mallery, who looked a little worse for wear.

"Feeling all right, Mallery?" Tom asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Well enough," the other boy said hoarsely, though he grunted softly when the carriage started moving and trundled over the haphazardly lain cobblestones. "Just in need of some potions and a bit of a nap, I think."

Tom's nostrils flared when Hermione reached down and clasped his hand in her own, and Draco reciprocated by squeezing her fingers. They remained hand in hand for the rest of the trip up to the castle.

"I heard a rumor that you're soon to get your own quarters," Tom said, more sharply than he'd intended, still irked over the familiarity with which they touched. "I believe they'll be across the hall from the hospital wing, so that you won't be far if you need Madam Soranus for anything."

Draco nodded. "She mentioned something similar to me last night. I'll be grateful for the privacy, to be honest. Hospital wing is a bit too…heavily trafficked for my liking."

Tom smiled. "I can imagine. I'm lucky I have my own quarters, as well. Being Head Boy does have its perks."

Hermione frowned, looking thoughtful. "I didn't know you had a separate suite as a Head." She paused, and looked to Draco. "Odd."

"Why is it odd?" Tom asked, cocking his head and leaning back into his seat.

She cleared her throat. "Just seems strange that they would give a seventeen-year-old boy – however responsible he may seem – his own quarters. Given certain…teenage proclivities."

The delicacy with which she worded it amused Riddle; it was odd, seeing as how she was improbably blunt with almost everything else. She'd talked about Gavin and Thoros fucking their way through the Hogwarts student population with ease, but when it came to him she was suddenly shifty and indirect.

Perhaps he would take a page from her book, then, and speak plainly.

"You're wondering how many women I've brought back to my rooms to fuck?" he said dryly, one eyebrow rising.

She blushed. Once again, he realized that it only made her uncomfortable when it was associated with him. He didn't know whether to be flattered, or irritated. Maybe a little of both.

"That's not at all what I said," she said snappishly. Mallery was struggling not to snigger. "I was merely making a statement on the fact that the libido of the average teenage boy is bordering on insatiable. It seems incredibly irresponsible to give one access to his own private space. Unless warranted by extenuating circumstances, such as Mallery's," she added, looking delightfully uneasy.

"The whole point of having a Head Boy and Girl is to select members of the student body that can be trusted," Tom said pointedly. "I find myself disinclined to do anything to break that trust. So I have not, as you say, acted on my insatiable libido within my dorms." He paused for effect, and then met her eyes. "I find other suitable places to satisfy my baser urges."

They pulled up to the castle just as her mouth parted and her cheeks blazed with embarrassment. Mallery was outright laughing, shaking his head as he climbed out of the carriage with a little less grace than he had gotten in it, due to his exhaustion. Tom hopped out, and turned to offer a hand to Granger; she batted it aside and swung out agilely on her own. She glared at him with mean, hot eyes.

"You are abusing your position of power by luring unsuspecting women to their doom," she hissed.

"Their doom? Don't be dramatic," he said with an eye roll, walking with her up to the front doors behind Mallery, who was still grinning. "My seduction of them has nothing to do with my Head Boy status, and you know it. They hardly need persuading. Besides, I'm not a total cad, like some of the men I know – I limit my dalliances to the same girls, who are always more than willing to oblige."

She stopped in her tracks, looking suspicious. "That makes no sense, because I would have heard about it. Women are practically falling all over themselves to get you to even notice them. No girl in this school would ever be able to keep their encounters with you a secret."

"They hardly have a choice," he said lowly, watching as Mallery paused up ahead, leaning against the doorframe and waiting for them, looking totally unconcerned by their conversation.

Realization filled her eyes. "You Obliviate them?" she asked, looking scandalized. "That's awful!"

He smiled. "I'm protecting myself. I'd have some girl snapping after my hand in marriage in a heartbeat, despite my humble beginnings. Believe me."

She still looked displeased. "You better not ever try that memory wiping shit with me, Riddle," she said hotly, crossing her arms. "I have a trap mind."

He cocked his head; he'd never met anyone with a trap mind, only heard about them. He wasn't even entirely sure that they existed, until now. "Very interesting. Although that sounds like a challenge," he said haughtily, enjoying the ire in her eyes. "But no." He grabbed a handful of her cloak and tugged, watching the way the cords around her throat tightened against her skin. She swallowed. "When I seduce you, Miss Granger, you will remember it afterwards," he murmured, letting go of her cloak and reaching up to set the fabric straight around her neck. His knuckles brushed her jugular, and he felt the unusual heat of her skin and the fast pulse of her blood pumping from her heart through to her arteries.

She sniffed, looking equal parts angry, terrified, and cautious. He did not miss the second of desire that flared in her eyes, however. His inner demon purred in satisfaction.

Turning, he left her there, taking two strides before he felt her small hand curl around his bicep. The muscle flexed of its own accord, and he turned his head slightly to look at her. Her eyes blazed with anger, swirling with tones of russet and tiger's eye and shadowy brown.

"You presume too much, Tom Riddle," she snarled quietly, her normally sweet visage cold and hard and, dare he say, rather menacing. That was all she said, before she pulled away, sniffed disdainfully, and moved ahead of him. He watched her go.

"Do I?" he murmured, enjoying the sway of her hips and the swish of her cloak as she made a beeline for the door. She faltered, and he knew she'd heard him. She did not turn back, only reached the doors and slipped through, brushing by Draco; the blond looked back at him, his eyes narrowed, before stepping through after her.

Whistling, his hands in his pockets, Tom strolled through the doors after them, feeling the thrill of a challenge settle low in his gut, tangling with the tendrils of desire and insatiable intrigue that stirred hotly in his stomach.

---

oooo

Grindelwald stared in mounting horror as the man before him became caught in what were the unmistakable throes of death.

The Russian fell from his chair to the floor, his fingers scrabbling at the carpet as he began to heave shaky, unsteady breaths. He was covered in a cold sweat, and Gellert watched, equal parts fascinated and disgusted, as the man's breath puffed out in irregular frosty clouds. The whites of his eyes became pinkish, and his eyes froze in their sockets, staring up at Grindelwald in agony.

The scrawny man's skin took on a bluish hue, and his lips turned dark purple. His fingers froze, and then the rest of his body followed. Blood trickled from his nose and ears and then froze immediately against his skin. He let out one last anguished gurgle, and then went still. Gellert poked the dead man with his toe – Boris Kuznetsov was frozen solid.

Gellert huffed in displeasure and looked up at the other man in the room, also Russian. "Who is responsible for this, Orlov?" he asked quietly in the man's native tongue.

The Russian spy looked like he was about to throw up. "He said that the girl – that she'd put a spell on him of some sort. He couldn't tell me what it was, just that it started with 'sangui.' He…he didn't feel anything, at first, so he didn't think anything of it. It was an hour later when he said he was cold for the first time."

"A slow blood-freezing spell, it sounds like," he said, turning the frozen man over with his foot. "Fascinating."

Orlov looked ill. "Can I – can I go now?"

Gellert sighed impatiently and waved him towards the door. "Yes. But send Hobbard in, would you?" Orlov nodded shakily, and hurriedly slipped out the door.

He looked down at the body. "Interesting."

He sat down at his desk, and penned a letter to one of his Hogwarts spies. What do you need from me in order to successfully capture the girl? He wrote. I'll take Mallery too, if possible, but I'd like to start with Granger. I'll help you however I can, if you can manage to get her off of Hogwarts' grounds.

He did not sign it. He did not need to.

Hobbard, one of his top captains, entered the room swiftly and silently. That's what Gellert liked most about Hobbard Weber – he was efficient, and quiet about it.

"Sir?" he said lowly, bowing his head in recognition.

"Take Kuznetsov's body, and give it to Healer Braun. Tell her I want to know exactly how he died, and if she can figure out the spell that caused it." He paused, fixing his letter to Lilith's leg and sending her out the window. "And send word to General Larsson – tell him to prepare to move into England. We'll start small, of course."

"Of course, Herr Grindelwald." Hobbard smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence. "Anything else?"

"For now, no," Gellert said, fingering the Elder Wand in his pocket. "But report back to me as soon as you have any information. Go."

When Hobbard left, he sat down heavily upon his desk chair. He stared at the array of photographs that Kuznetsov and Orlov had taken. He studied the three young people in the frames, watching their movements and mannerisms closely. Riddle, of course, he'd seen before. The breathtakingly handsome face and perfect form of the boy never failed to enrapture him, however. The Mallery boy was in possession of an indifferent, glacial countenance and intense, sharp eyes that were so pale in color they were nearly opalescent. The girl was pretty enough, but carried herself as if she were years older than a mere eighteen. Her hair was wild and shiny, her body as thin as a rapier and just as poised and deadly, and her eyes – her eyes were dark and dangerous and full of a certain wickedness that struck Gellert hard in the gut.

If he could not own them, tame them – he would have to destroy them.

"Oh Albus," he breathed, looking out the window, thinking of the handsome countenances of the three powerful students and how much power was sitting right at his old flame's feet. "I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, old friend."

Raising his wand, he destroyed the photographs, blowing the remaining cinders out the window and into the wind.

oooo

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I'm sorry this chapter was so long, but I couldn't find anyplace that would gracefully break apart into two chapters. So here you have it, my twenty-thousand word monster.

Please, please, please review – it will make this whole losing my computer thing a little more tolerable, and lift my spirits immeasurably. Y'all have no idea how happy it makes me when I see that people are enjoying my story and take the time to comment on it. Remember, all comments are welcome. I appreciate any feedback, even the negative stuff. Don't be afraid to review honestly, even if you think it will hurt my feelings.

A snippet from the next chapter:

She inhaled shakily, feeling her wrath grow with each passing second. Her desire for him did absolutely nothing to diminish her hatred of him. She let her hands slide from his shoulders and clench into fists at her sides. She gave him a shark-like grin, sure that it made her look like some sort of half-mad demon. She didn't care.

Anyways, I love you guys dearly, and I will try to keep churning out the chapters even without all of my pre-written stuff. Please keep your fingers crossed on my computer situation!

xoxo

Giraffe :)