It wasn't meant to be like this.

But then again, when did any plan involving Harry bloody Potter ever turn out as it was supposed to?

At least she'd had three months before Hogwarts started up – three months to sort out her background, story, plant memories and a history, build up a life of an unremarkable little child which would hold up to scrutiny but hopefully not invite any further interest.

But it wasn't where she was meant to be – it hadn't even been her who was meant to go. It had been Harry.

The first few years after the war ends were glorious – there was, of course, the mourning, the rebuilding, but, above all, there were celebrations - of life, of magic, of a new world.

It doesn't last.

Magic was deserting the British Isles, slowly but surely, and within another decade or two – well, all arithmancy calculations said that any wizard or witch with British lineage in their veins would lose their magic by 2020, with Harry left as the only wizard for reasons unknown – speculated on, but unknown.

Hermione, a junior in her career as an Unspeakable, had uncovered it. She'd learnt new ways of using arithmancy and was meant to create her own prediction with it, just as proof that she'd learnt and understood what she was being taught.

Naturally, that's not what happened – or, well, it sort of was.

Hermione's hand had shook, for the first time since the end of the war, when she handed her arithmancy calculations over to her supervisor in the Department of Mysteries. What she had intended as proof that muggle-born blood was needed to revive Wizarding lines had, instead, turned to prove the end of the Wizarding World in England.

Naturally, as she was just a junior, there had been some chuckling and good-natured ribbing and Hermione had held out hope; hope that she was wrong, that they would prove her wrong.

But days passed and the men and women around her grew more frantic, more worried and then she was invited, along with Harry, Ron, Neville, Draco, Ginny and Luna to attend a meeting with the Minister and some select department heads.

Too many families had shed their last blood in England and Scotland and the three consecutive wars with Grindelwald, followed by Voldemort, twice, had seen entire lines die out. The blood soaking into the earth, their anger and despair, had accumulated. There was too much betrayal, too much death, too much hate. Magic had turned against the people born in this land.

Lucius' father, were he still alive, would have survived, magic intact, as they came from France, but Lucius's mother had British blood and Narcissa was a Black – Draco had no chance of escaping. Magic would still exist – in Europe, across Africa and America, but not in England or Scotland. A mass exodus of creatures had already been noted and remarked upon, but not investigated, not, at least, by the Unspeakables.

Until now.

There was no hiding it anymore.

Fleeing wouldn't help – it was their own blood turned against them in a fit of irony.

The plan the Ministry – that the Unspeakables – came up with was borne from desperation.

Time Travel on a never-seen-before scale.

But the loss of magic struck before then.

It took years to finish the calculations, to call on rune masters and mistresses across the globe, to get the rare ingredients and magic together that by the time the ritual was finished, the witches and wizards left in Great Britain did not have enough magic left inside of them to finish the ritual.

And Hermione – well, she'd had a brilliant idea.

Why not use the cloak, the wand and ring? They were myths, of course, but there was power in such myths, as evidenced by the cloak lasting for generations when it shouldn't have.

The Ministry had planned to send someone back – but there had never been a debate or discussion about who it would be – their eyes had turned and landed on the one boy who had been roped into their plans since birth, who had lived – and died – for a bloody world which praised and reviled him in turns. And Hermione? Well, she'd spent her life since that tiny, skinny boy had jumped on the back of a troll for her, attempting to protect him in turn.

So that's what she did. She argued and protested and when they wanted to bring their plans before the once-again-chosen-one? Hermione had offered that it be her who present it to him.

And she'd taken one look at those big, sad green eyes, at the slope of his hunched shoulders, considered the expectations that she would once again heap on the boy and she'd refused. Hermione told Harry that it was her, that she was meant to go, that they needed the Deathly Hallows to continue.

He gave them freely, to her, but he'd looked unusually serious and asked her if she was certain.

Hermione had never been less certain in her life – she wasn't cut out to be the hero, wasn't as kind or forgiving as Harry was. But, well, beggars couldn't be choosers and Hermione couldn't bring herself to put that weight on him again. The Ministry wasn't that hard to convince – they were desperate with time running out rapidly.

What Hermione hadn't counted on was the one thing Harry couldn't – or wouldn't – tell her and the one thing which had led her to where she was now – or, well, when she was now.

Just like in first year when she couldn't remember that she was a witch and could light fire with her wand, she had brought her muggleborn perspective – her experience growing up with science and logic – to bear on the world around her and forgotten one crucial thing: magic had yet to be explained with science and logic.

So, Hermione had believed fairytales to be fairytales. Hadn't questioned it, not even for a moment. That these old myths and legends, while holding a kernel of truth, were generally written generations later and meant to carry some sort of moral learning – these stories were there to be interpreted, not to be read as truth.

Except it turned out to be true.

And the power of the Deathly Hallows was far beyond what could have been put in by ten, twenty or even fifty witches and wizards at the height of their power.

It shouldn't have been such a surprise that instead of the hoped-for 15 years or the more-likely 10 years, Hermione had landed back at the end of spring in 1939.

Her body was her own, but significantly younger – the same age she had been before her first year at Hogwarts.

And Harry's power had become hers.

The Master of Death.

Because no one could survive such power being pushed into them, no one could survive being torn apart and put back together.

Not without dying first. And again. And Again.

By the time she came to, Hermione had met Death and been told that due to that frankly rather foolish ritual, the Deathly Hallows were now a part of her – the only way to survive. And that was only because Death had liked Harry and this was what he had wanted; for the Deathly Hallows to cease existing and for Hermione to survive.

It was humbling, being told by a primordial being that you couldn't have mattered less in their eyes, but that you only survived at the wishes of your best friend.

It helped, with the remaining anger at Harry for not telling her, not warning her. And the fact that she had a much larger chance, a better opportunity of still being able to save the world she'd grown up in.


It was hard, those first few months – the Muggle world was so much larger and stranger than she'd ever had to deal with. Of course, Hermione knew about the Second World War, of course Hermione knew about the bombings, and the military and the wives and code breaking and the amount of deaths.

But there was a difference between knowing and living here, strangely removed from a world wherein women and girls didn't have the rights she was used to – the voice she was used to. A world which lived torn between anger and fear. A world of evacuation and emergency drills, of sirens and teary-eyed goodbyes and bodies.

Hermione had thought it sensible, at the time, to plant her roots overseas. Her French was good enough to suffice and explain a few years spent there before escaping over here after the death of her parents. But the whole mission of going there, planting thoughts and memories, had been so much more dangerous than she'd ever have thought. And so much more frightening.

The Wizarding war she had fought in with Harry and Ron had held several hundred people on each side.

The Muggle war was millions of people.

But despite it all, it had worked.

Hermione Jean Granger was once again enrolled at Hogwarts for her first year beginning on 1st September 1939. Naturally she'd deliberately chosen an orphanage out of the way in rural Scotland rather than where the main air-raids took place – a mere suggestion implanted in a muggle's brain made sure of that.

Hermione had too much to do to allow herself to die early on.


Her first plan fell apart the moment she laid eyes on him.

Harry – and Ginny, when she could be convinced to talk about it – had both described Tom Riddle as handsome, charismatic and hauntingly beautiful.

The boy Hermione saw at the Slytherin table was none of that.

The boy sitting among the second years at the Slytherin table reminded her, rather starkly, of Harry – when he came back from his summers.

Shoulders too tight, too stiff, chin lifted up highly in what others might interpret as arrogance but Hermione saw as defiance (I came back, I'm still alive, you won't beat me). The small portion of non-fatty foods on his plate, the slow, forcefully controlled way he was eating, the way he snuck food into his robes when he thought no one was looking.

The way the baby fat which should still be clinging to him in parts was gone, replaced by too-gaunt cheeks, eyes too sunken in, all the fat burned by his body to survive a summer in a large London orphanage in the middle of the Great Depression, the lead-up to WW2 and with fundings cut to the bone and an ever-increasing number of children attending.

Her plan to sneak into their dorms and slaughter him in the middle of the night died the moment her eyes first fell on the small child; no matter who he grew up to be later on, this was a child who had never even been given the opportunity – any opportunity.

Hermione's resolve faltered and fell apart but her mind quickly spun new plans – the moment the first innocent body hit the floor, so would his. But until then – well, live and let live, she supposed. Hermione had more important things to work on anyway. Tom Riddle had only ever been a very small part of her plans.


Her sorting would have surprised Ron, Hermione would like to think. Harry, she thought, wouldn't even have blinked.

Hermione had plans and her ambition to save the British Wizarding World was certainly an ambitious one. She was brave and travelled back in time using an unknown, new method powered by magical constructs she knew nothing about and without any friends, family or support at her side for a better world. The epitome of both Gryffindor and Slytherin.

But that's where they went wrong. That was the Hermione even back when she was eleven, along with an unhealthy dose of worshipping knowledge, authors and authority beyond the bounds of what she should have. She'd been considered for all three houses – Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and even Slytherin (because she'd needed to show everyone that she deserved to be here).

But now? There was really only one choice for her. A choice never open to eleven year old her.

The house for the loyal and hardworking. Because, while Hermione was – and had been – hardworking, she'd never had friends before Harry, had never known nor needed to be loyal. But once she met Harry? Hermione hadn't faltered, not once, in all their years of friendship. And Hermione hadn't travelled back for people who hated her blood, hated her parents, hated everything about her. She'd travelled back for Harry. For that little boy who had jumped up on the back of a troll several times his size to save her. For that little boy who had run in, time and again, to save the children at school, the Wizarding World and everyone else without any of the adults stepping in to help.

But not anymore.

Because Hermione was old enough now – she was one of these adults. And Harry had already been robbed of one childhood, she wouldn't allow the world to steal a second one from him.

It was her choice, born of loyalty, that made the Sorting Hat's choice quick and easy. Because without loyalty Hermione wouldn't even have been here.

It worked better for her anyway.

No one paid attention to Hufflepuffs.

And blending in was exactly what she needed.

The first month was spent building a few superficial friendships – enough not to invite scrutiny as to why a Hufflepuff was being isolationist rather than friendly – and a quick schedule drawn up to make sure she maintained these friendships sufficiently. She'd be remembered vaguely a decade from now, but probably not fondly. It was enough.

The curriculum was more demanding than in her own time, but nothing remarkable for an adult-turned-child. Still, standing out would be against what she wanted so the challenge lay rather in completing every homework and task set in class so she turned out just average and making sure she kept an exact record of what she professed to know and understand and where she fell short – nothing worse than letting the Professors know about her understanding enough of their marking schemes to make herself just fall short, than to explain something in one essay which she didn't in the next one.

A small challenge, but at least a fun one. Still, barely took up any time as she already had all the knowledge and resources.

No, the biggest part of her planning involved the outreach – she couldn't just focus on Hogwarts to the exclusion of the world out there.

Especially once she became aware that Tom Riddle wasn't the only orphan in here, not the only one suffering from food shortages and worries about whether there would be a home to return to in the future. Even those who had parents suffered from the Great Depression and impending war.

The note that Great Britain had joined the Second World War earned nothing more than a vague footnote in the Daily Prophet a mere three days after term started, but enough people picked up on it that it made the rounds in Hogwarts.


Hermione suffered from acute lack of sleep over the next few months – pamphlets for the muggles to let them know what was coming, what dangers she remembered, what they shouldn't do, finding ways to disseminate them across the affected regions and countries as needed. Then the Wizarding World, conveying the importance of the War when the First one had barely any impact and the Atomic bomb had yet to be detonated, researching families and sending individual letters to members of the Wizengamot taking different tactics to appeal to all of them until, finally, at the beginning of the second term, after the winter holidays, the Wizengamot created a law which meant all orphans were fostered by families in the Wizengamot and muggle families would be offered housing in Hogsmeade with the proviso and a magical vow made by their child on behalf of the parents which would forbid them to return to that world until their war had passed.

It was revolutionary.

It was new.

Dumbledore was against it, but as mere transfiguration professor, no matter how powerful, he didn't have any say in such matters. Dippet had kept swithering between one opinion and the next until the Wizengamot issued its decree when he naturally fell into supporting it fully.

But Hermione's eyes were on the children across the school, whose shoulders relaxed, who breathed in deeply, who were crying in relief. Her eyes flitted across Tom, whose face was calm, placid, immovable – but who ate slower, breathed calmer and the permanent tension around him had subsided.

Another step in the right direction. Another few Harrys saved.

The posters of mothers leaving their children away from home as being safer than with their own family due to the war, she figured, had really hit home. As well as the gas mask pamphlets warning about exposed skin, about putting it on babies and carrying it with you everywhere – on journeys, day and night. Making games to ensure toddlers wear them.

What followed Hermione hadn't expected but should have – blood tests for all half-bloods, muggleborns and all orphans so a suitable family could be found. It wouldn't list the ancestors, but rather show any families registered in Britain currently with the Ministry which linked back to the child.

As it turns out, it was rather well known that muggleborns were likely the product of long-forgotten squibs; magic attracted to magic, no matter how faint, and resulting in the muggleborns rejoining their world. Very rarely Magic gifted itself to true Newbloods, ones who had no relation to any magic prior, but it wasn't unheard of either.

Riddle, nevertheless, was brought under the purview of the Malfoy family with the Gaunts found eminently unsuitable for housing a Wizarding child. An easy decision if there ever was one from what Hermione had heard through Harry.

Hermione's showed the Potter link – her blood vow with Harry during their year on the run, after Ron had left, to never leave him. But the Potters, never having exiled any squibs, had already accepted the maximum five children any Wizengamot family was allowed to foster, and were at a loss, wanting to bring her into the family but also unwilling to renege on any promises made before they'd known about her.

Through Harry, she also had a faint link to the Blacks, but in the end the family who took her in was the Ogden's – wholly unremarkable, which suited Hermione perfectly. Another way for her to blend in, to be forgotten.

So far, no one had been able to figure out that she had been the one to contact the Wizengamot members – years of imitating her parents handwriting as well as Ron's and, on occasion, Harry's, had helped, along with using her non-dominant hand. The Wizarding World only looked at magical solutions but using muggle methods made everything easier. Additionally, they presumed it came from a Hogwarts student as she had used the owls available here but they hadn't yet figured they needed to look below sixth year.

Hermione wished, time and again, that she had looked even just a little bit more closely into Grindelwald, so she could warn about his moves – but her concentration had been rather focussed on the Dark Lord after Harry, not one which was already incarcerated, so her knowledge was superficial, for once. The muggle world she could warn of what she knew, but not the magical one.

Maybe a few people less died this time around. She only hoped her interference hadn't made it worse for any – but she would likely never know even if that were the case.

The Daily Prophet reported more on the ongoing Muggle war now that the Wizengamot members had shown their interest and the witches and wizards were horrified, their fear likely outstripping their worries over Grindelwald.

A new charm was invented – a more sturdy bubblehead charm which covered the entire body and couldn't be dispelled by bumping into the bubble in response to the fears of the gas attacks the muggles were talking about.

The major wizarding locations also gained further protections against physical attacks – such as bombs or guns, which may inadvertently fall on Diagon Alley. The goblins likely made a mint from upgrading protections on family homes against these new potential threats and the newspaper started running a column on helpful spells every witch and wizard should know and be familiar with.

First year bled into second year and third. The Blitz over London had created a fright, but overall, the Wizarding World had been relieved to come out unscathed.

The interesting thing, however, was that after months of being absent – Grindelwald's wand had, after all, disappeared suddenly – Grindelwald had made his return and inspired chaos across the ocean. With Tom still being a child and not a threat, Grindelwald had made it next on her hitlist.

Dumbledore had been part of the reason for the downfall, for one, and Hermione had no wish for him to gain the accolades for ridding their world of one Dark Lord again. Not this time.

Still, Hermione didn't have the power of Harry, or the strategic thinking of Ron. Hermione's skill lay in research and planning, but people had always eluded her. And she had no idea of what moves he would make when – no foresight.

Or at least she didn't – not until Cassiopeia Black slipped her a note at Kings' Cross as Hermione was about to step on the train to begin her fourth year.

It gave her the location, date and time of when to defeat Grindelwald – 12 December 1943. Less than six months to learn and train.

Cassiopeia made no further contact and neither did Hermione. She had no intention of engaging with divination or seers, but neither would she turn down gifts freely proffered.


Tom hadn't noticed, not even when he walked past her in Hogsmeade when she sat alone at the bar, sipping butterbeer, writing something on a napkin. He had sneered, automatically, at the plebeian nature of her – writing anything on a napkin of all things, when any witch or wizard could easily transfigure it into actual paper, but paid no further mind.

Not until he sorted his memories two days later, at least, and noticed the arithmancy calculations made were well beyond anything he could do or even conceive of.

He looked for her, then – her back had been to him, but she was young enough by her size she should still be at school even if he couldn't tell what house.

Slytherins he knew and not a one of them had hair that bushy. After a week of careful investigation and observation he didn't find her among his most likely guess, the Ravenclaws, either. Finally, he conceded and observed Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs but didn't find her there either.

It took another three weeks before he saw her – on the grounds by the lake, surrounded by other Hufflepuffs, throwing food towards the Squid of all things. He watched her quietly from then on – she mostly ate from the kitchens, which is why he had struggled so much to find her in the hall. And, most outrageously, she was a year below him and more well-versed in Arithmancy than even the seventh years. Not that her grades seemed to reflect this.

It made no sense – why wouldn't someone show all that they're capable of?

Weeks passed but Tom resolved nothing, gained no further knowledge of the girl – Hermione – that couldn't be garnered by anyone with half a passing interest in her. It was unfathomable.

And so he confronted her.

"Miss Granger, is it?" He asked with a charming smile – most girls were flattered if he knew their name, fawned over him.

Not this one, not her, of course not. Never.

Her eyes barely lifted from her notes as she gave an acknowledging hum and finally condescended herself to using actual words only moments later.

"Afternoon, Headboy Riddle. Have I done something wrong?"

Her tone said she didn't think so, but the lack of attention infuriated him and, much though he tried, his control over his hormones was not perfect. The rising anger meant instead of teasing out information, he demanded answers.

"You're a prodigy at arithmancy yet your marks show you as average. Why?"

This time she blinked and actually looked at him, closing her notebook.

"Why do grades matter?" She posited in return.

Tom frowned. "Your career, your future-"

She cut him off with an impatient swipe of her hand.

"Irrelevant. They only look at your NEWTS or, I suppose, OWLs if you finish earlier."

Tom opened his mouth to refuse but realised he couldn't.

"Don't you want others to know your skill?"

This time she was the one frowning.

"For what purpose?"

"To stand out, to make them acknowledge you," he explained, exasperated, only faintly aware both had sat down opposite each other, notes put aside.

Hermione hummed for a moment again, before she responded.

"But that would give them more power than I want them to have, over me. Why would I care what Dippet or Dumbledore or Merriweather thinks of me so long as they give me the same access to all the materials? Why would their opinion of me in any way influence my own opinion of myself? Or, conversely, why should it influence in any way my standing among my peers?" She shrugged.

"I am the way I am. I accept who I am. Whether Dumbledore sneers at me," she says with a knowing look at Riddle who flinches slightly, "or Merriweather thinks I'm the bee's knees, that's just them looking at me and imposing their own views of who I am on it, judging me by their own morals based on who they think I am. Doesn't mean they know me. Doesn't mean I agree with their morals."

Hermione gives another shrug.

"So why would I care?"

Her glance falls on her wristwatch and with a quick wave of her wand her notes and books fall back into her bag. She gives him a smile and slight nod of her head.

"Well, headboy Riddle, this has been a pleasant diversion but I'm afraid I need to make my way to my Potions class."

Tom stares after her.

Others had told him to ignore Dumbledore but no one had ever put it quite like this. Why did he care? It wasn't like he agreed with Dumbledore's moral compass or judgements; it wasn't like Dumbledore had a single clue what Tom really was like.

So why did it matter?

It took him until he was near the Slytherin dorms before he realised he still didn't know anything more about her or where she got her knowledge in Arithmancy from. None of his allies, friends or followers in Slytherin had been able to dig up substantial information on this woman. Six years at Hogwarts and nothing noteworthy. How was that possible?


Tom couldn't have been more satisfied with his NEWT grades after graduation; he had not only beaten Dumbledore but also set some records in numerous subjects – Arithmancy and Defence, for one. Although Tom didn't doubt that Hermione would beat his Arithmancy score next year – he was still curious, naturally, but figured he would need to approach her again later, once she'd graduated. Maybe use his connections to help her find a job? She'd be indebted and he would have more control over where she was placed and find out more of her capabilities.

Yes, that would work. In the meantime, it was essential he focus on his own aspirations to become Minister of Magic. His job, naturally, was already secured before he even left Hogwarts.


A smile twitched on her lips when she looked at the letter in her hands.

NEWTs were more difficult now than in the future when the curriculum had been dumbed down and curtailed – but Hermione was still an adult revisiting her childhood education. An avid reader with excellent memory; the coursework had been, frankly speaking, laughably easy with seven years to catch up on new material and add to it. She'd beaten several records, including Riddle's Defence record. Amusingly, they still didn't demand duelling – she would have likely not been as good as Riddle at that. But just producing spells?

Easy.

She wondered how infuriated Riddle would be now, looking at her scores beating out his, and her lips twitched.

The last few years had been productive ones.

The Wolf's Bane potion which allowed werewolves to retain their minds had been released under a pseudonym.

Grindelwald had been defeated; thanks to knowing the venue of the fight beforehand she'd had ample time to prepare several traps and while he'd been able to successfully avoid or neutralise seventeen of them, the eighteenth one had succeeded (no, there was no such thing as overkill, Hermione had found). Plus, she'd taken the time to make sure that at the time of his defeat, Dumbledore was in a rather public location discussing with the Ministry his non-intervention when they were pleading for his aid – just to make sure that there was no way he could take credit or that anyone could think he was the one responsible, given that Hermione herself didn't intend to take credit for it.

For whatever reason, Tom hadn't found or at least not released the Basilisk in the chambers. Myrtle had graduated and left Hogwarts none the wiser how narrowly she escaped death.

She had been able to influence further legislation through more letter campaigns so the Dark or Blood magic was not banned but allowing magical equality and furthering the rights and inclusion of Muggleborns and Muggles into the Wizarding World (including a summer course prior to Hogwarts' start to bring them up to speed on magical culture, celebrations, history, quill writing etc).

There were many things she was still working on, but as it stood, the eradication of magical blood on the isles had, hopefully, been averted. Her calculations so far stated that as long as she continued the way she had, the magic wouldn't leave them.

But it meant she needed to continue – and, as a Hufflepuff, she had a rather unfair advantage in getting a job. Because Hufflepuffs were loyal, the network they had set up extended far beyond Hogwarts and getting a job was easy because there was certain to be someone wherever you wanted to go and even those who had left Hogwarts behind several decades ago were willing to lend a hand in getting you a job.

Naturally, she had gotten some surprised messages from her teachers afterwards; teachers who had ignored and disregarded her, who hadn't seen what the examiners saw and Hermione barely even glanced at them before setting them on fire.


"Miss Granger?"

Hermione blinked in surprise when she saw the man at the entrance of her office.

"Ah, Mister Riddle." She smiled. "Pleasure to see you again."

The tiny twelve year old had grown into a tall, broad-shouldered man – a man whose cheekbones could cut glass. How had he ended up so damn handsome even with the Gaunt genetics and inbreeding running through his veins; frankly, it was rather unfair he could turn out so perfect despite the odds.

"I hear congratulations are in order," he tells her and Hermione cocks her head.

"I'm afraid you may be more on top of the latest gossip than I am, Mister Riddle. Congratulations for what?"

"Tom, please," he smirks and winks at her, leaning against her doorframe. "And for beating my records and setting new ones. I expected you to be good – but you were better than I could've imagined."

Hermione laughs.

"That was six months ago, Tom."

He raises an eyebrow.

"And it's the first time I've seen you since."

She concedes with a shrug and half-nod.

"Well, please call me Hermione."

His hair is artfully curled over his brow, his outfit is immaculate with not a single crease and the smirk on his lips positively sinful as he gazes at her.

"May I take you out to dinner, dear Hermione? To celebrate our reunion?"

Another smile twitches at her lips and she doesn't bother hiding her amusement.

"I would love to go to dinner with you, Tom."

There should be hesitation. The wand that killed so many of her friends belongs to him, the monster who ruthless pursued a child for years, trying to murder her Harry at every turn, is what her date could potentially still turn into.

But Tom- well, Tom is different. He is charming, open – and gods, he is so clever. Never before has there been someone in her age-group who could keep up with her and even outdo her.

This Tom is brimming with potential – and Hermione rather wants to be here and see what he could do with the world at his feet when he doesn't need to resort to violence, when his soul remains intact.

She still has so many plans, so many things she has to work on.

What would it be like, she wonders, working with a partner, someone who can plan better, and who probably enjoys the politics, manoeuvring and blackmailing a whole lot more than she would?

"This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," she says with a smirk when she grabs her robe, ready to leave and is amused to see him lower himself enough to roll his eyes in exasperation at the muggle reference. Despite it, he still helps her into her robes and holds the door for her – manners she frankly still isn't used to, despite spending so many years in the past now.

Then again, it's the first time she's accepted an offer of courtship.

Yes, she thinks when Riddle offers her his arm and another charming smile, she is rather curious to find out just how far this man can go, how much he can change the world – with her at his side.

It's not enough for a relationship – but it is enough to intrigue her into beginning a courtship, at least, to see if there could ever be more, if he would ever be open to more.

And if so? Well then, maybe she will be able to tell him about being the Master of Death and the powers it brings – the power which could help him.

Hermione gazes up into the bright sunlight, pausing for a moment on the steps leading into the Ministry.

It's a brand-new day in a brand-new world.

And Hermione would ensure it would be a better one.

Not for Harry.

But for herself. And, maybe, for Tom, too.


Author's Notes: Hope you enjoyed - please review and comment to let me know what you think :)