yo this chapter is a monster. hope you like it.
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"Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends."
– William Shakespeare
Tom Riddle had grown a beard, and he hated it. Sometimes he did not recognize himself when he caught a glance of his own face in the glass walls. He seethed every time he glimpsed his emaciated self. This was not who he was supposed to be, and worst was that no one knew what he was supposed to look like, let alone how he was supposed to act. The others didn't know about his intelligence, his power, his talent.
In fact, Geoff and Glen had long since given up on trying to verbally engage him, mostly for their own emotional safety. At some point, probably a little less than a fortnight ago, he had insulted Geoff so viciously that the boy had broken down in tears. It had been hilarious.
His hair was back to its normal length and then some. He no longer knew how much time it had been since he'd been chucked in here. However, he didn't think it did him justice to say that he'd lost track of the days; rather, he'd started willfully ignoring the number of sunsets and sunrises after a while, an attempt to suppress his displeasure. This attempt was doomed to fail, of course, but no one could say he hadn't tried.
Of course, no one could say anything, really. Or they might as well not, because he couldn't suffer to listen. Merlin, but he hoped Glen died, that fucking snarky half-blood. He hoped Geoff died faster. Worthless boy. That girl with the short hair might as well be dead already, she was so much of a soulless shell. And he thought that fellow in the corner with the red hair might actually be dead. Riddle hadn't seen him move in a few days, seemed like.
One time, he had even wished himself dead. He had forced himself to go to sleep immediately, fearful that he might be getting seriously unhinged.
Tom Riddle was angry. To be fair, he couldn't recall a day in several weeks when he hadn't been in a constant rage. It was simply more noticeable this day because the crashes of thunder from outside perfectly reflected his foul mood.
More thunder, the cracked knuckles of the gods, the air heavy and electric.
The roof retracted for what was supposed to be their late afternoon hour of sunlight. As if. It rained more often than it shone, which was actually rather fortunate, since there was no other option for showering. Today, though, was no simple shower. The thunderheads squatted above, tremendous dark volcanoes, spattering lightning around like lava. The raindrops were great slobbering tongues. The thunder's terrific din trundled overhead, flattening the charged air like dough beneath a rolling pin. For the first time in a while, Riddle could venture to say that he felt somewhat alive.
He settled further down on the wall. And then something remarkable happened.
A blast of lightning rocketed down into his cell and struck the woven floor. A crackling noise spurted up from the point of impact, and the fibers of the ground flickered and seemed to go dead.
He sat up straight, blinking rapidly. His breath caught in his throat. Something felt different about the air. Some insulation had been ripped away from his cell.
Riddle's heart raced.
Months and months of pent-up magic rushed to his fingertips like water. He could feel it.
He let out a laugh and looked up at the open roof, so far above. Utter disbelief warred with an instant sense of triumph. After all that waiting, it wasn't Bansherwold or Granger who would get him out. It would be himself. It would be his fate, his fortune, his goddamn good dumb luck.
He whispered a quiet incantation to his fists, and when they lit up with a dark red glow, something lurched in his chest. Some deep emotion had been dislodged. He felt like opening his mouth and letting loose a fierce victorious cry, celebrating to the sky.
He was going to murder every last Muggle here.
He thrust his fists downward, and shoved off from the detestable fiber ground. He didn't quite know how he did it, but he rocketed out of his glass cell and into the sky.
For a heart-stopping second, he fell through the air – but then that feeling ground back into life in his chest: dauntless, wild, furious power. Joy, although he would have died before calling it that. And that power buoyed him, and he started to fly.
He rocketed up on drafts. Violent streams of air buffeted his hair, threaded darts of water through his beard, and if he were going to be quite honest, he thought a good old-fashioned cackle was in order.
Tom felt vindicated. Validated. Absolutely invincible.
That was when he woke up.
It was dark, and it was quiet, and he was curled in the corner of a dry cell.
He could still feel in his stomach the swoop of flight. He could still feel the power bursting from his skin …
It was unfair. It was so unfair.
For one absurd, humiliating moment, an actual tear dared to come to his eye, a vicious livid tear of sheer injustice. He bit down on his tongue so hard he tasted blood, his face contorting into a hideous expression of rage. He curled up so tightly he thought his pointed knees might bite into his spine. He could not think of returning to sleep; he could not think of anything but being wrathful and bitter and alone; he could not think in any way that was acceptable to him. He wanted to die. He wanted to die.
"No," he muttered to himself, through gritted teeth. "No."
How many months had he been here?
How much time wasted?
Would he rot here, at the hands of those clearly inferior to him?
If they would be his undoing, how inferior could they be?
He closed his eyes and swallowed the bloody taste. He did not know how he had avoided the questions so long.
He supposed he really should have known it was a dream. He had never been lucky. He had worked every second of every day of his life to be who he was.
Though how much did it matter, now?
Another band of days shuffled by, manacled together with iron nights.
Tom Riddle was going crazy. He knew it. The psychotic break tickled and itched and shuddered for release like an impending sneeze. Inevitable. He wasn't sure if the other people in their cells were real anymore; they seemed to drift silent as wraiths. He slept infrequently and fitfully, so irregularly that he wasn't often sure what was a dream and what was not. He hadn't eaten in days. At least he knew that for certain. His lack of appetite was an anchor of sorts. A remarkably shitty anchor.
Lying on his back, limbs sprawled akimbo, Tom Riddle stared at the sky intently as if it might reveal something more than unrelenting cloud. He watched those clouds skitter overhead and drip their foul waters onto his face. He did not flinch, even when the water hit his eyes. He found himself wondering: did that make sense? Wasn't it an instinctive bodily reaction to blink at something like that? Was he dead, then?
I can't be dead, no; I have Horcruxes, of course I'm not dead, I've done so much work to prevent just that, he thinks, and yes, by God, hasn't he done the work. Certainly. He massages the pale band of skin on his finger where the ring was. He thinks of the matron of the orphanage finding it where he stored it just for that day a century and a half ago, behind the frame of a drawer, because he thought Alengurd Bansherwold might try to barter for it and thereby pose a threat. A threat – Riddle does not face threats; Tom Riddle's last threat was in his infancy; Tom Riddle has not been helpless since he could wave his fingers and make brittle stinging sparks like nettles, drag those sparks through the air, smack skin with them and turn it mottled red … Tom Riddle will never again be helpless; Tom Riddle will never be threatened; Tom Riddle has a name that is not his name I am your Lord and it guards from evil because it is the one true evil that will bring him glory – all the glory of a bursting sun – the glory of a hundred million knees bent his way – the incandescent perpetual glory of a great reign and finally at long last with a titanic crash the great rain shatters down upon his lips and tongue and tiny tarnished tongues of flame dart through his mind rewinding finding pathways through his neurons his nerves into his bones his body his starved supine body his perpetually dying body and now he sees corpses lined up like matchsticks red-tipped red-tongued ready to burst into the glory of flame and there he sees Myrtle's corpse and for a minor eternity he will never be able to see anything else because her eyes are needles daggers serpents settling to crown him like a diadem of guilt and the rage writhes heavy atop it in justification and dyes the diadem deep dark black twisted withered obsidian and soon although not soon enough he forgets that the word "guilt" exists for it has always been drowned in the glory of fame and yet he must admit his air is filthy and weighs too much and truthfully he intends never to breathe again but how long he has gone breathless he is unsure the only thing he does know is that his traitorous lungs will soon betray him just like everything has and just like everything will and for just a moment he can smell his downfall and see it and taste it and it tastes not unlike the thick wasted blood of a corpse for there is a stale and clotted viscosity to that taste as if it has sat stagnant in veins for six months possibly more how many months how many days how many hours jesus fucking christ but he thought he could manage longer than this he should be able to last longer I should be able to I am lord voldemort I am lord voldemort I am lord
"—VOLDEMORT I AM LORD VOLDEMORT I AM LORD VOLDEMORT"
Four bewildered pairs of eyes.
"DO YOU KNOW MY NAME DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM" they don't know it they don't see they don't see how are they so blind these useless blind sheep they are all sheep they are all muggles
all of us
"YOU ANSWER ME WHEN I'M TALKING – YOU LISTEN WHEN I SPEAK – I AM TO BE FEARED – THE WORLD WILL KNOW MY NAME THE WORLD WILL FEAR MY NAME DO YOU HEAR ME DO YOU HEAR ME DO – YOU – HEAR – ME –"
they do not hear me
a maggot is wriggling out of her eye
his mouth is opening too far, so far, so far his jaw is drooping down to his stomach the bones are cracking the teeth are rotten twisted stumps the tongue is crawling with pupae everything is dead everything is decay; fuck staggerback stumbleback backbackback against the glass
something is erupting in the sky for a moment he believes it is a dragon's tongue
it is a white chase of lightning i see that i see it now
i am sobbing heaving screaming
"I AM THE GREATEST WIZARD WHO HAS EVER LIVED"
and she says, "You poor bloke, a bit delusional, are you?"
an animal scream pours from my lips and i fly at the glass she stumbles back his nails will not find purchase i break them all ten. i punch until my metacarpals snap. i feel no pain because that is for the weak
so much anger the floor crackles with harnessing my power
"Jesus, Geoff, he's really going to hurt himself, looks like."
"Bastard can do what he likes."
the worst thing she can do is shrug and turn away and that is exactly what she does.
i slide down and down and down and down the wall.
i do not know where i end up.
the bloodstains have been dry on the wall for a week when they come, drift into being before him
riddle tells them to go, and they do, dissipating like so much mist
the second time they come is a week after that. they slip up through the fibers of the floor like ghosts
riddle throws himself bodily at them because words have lost all meaning. he cannot find menace in anything but his heart and body anymore
they flicker away like a mirage before he hits them
the third time they come is the week after that. middle of the night. they come with a bang and emerge panting. their faces are pained. her hair is still hardly longer than shaved. he looks immaculately groomed.
riddle sits in the corner, gaunt and silent, cheated of everything
"Riddle?" Granger says quietly.
so now they're speaking. this is a new level, he thinks. this is a new level.
"Tom Riddle," she says more loudly.
he opens his mouth and something of a stream of noise falls out. there might be a word or two somewhere in the clutter, but he is not entirely certain because well, he wasn't quite sure how to reply to something that wasn't real, in any case. (A fragment of lucidity swam through his mind, pierced the haze. Hallucination. Not real.) Not real … not real
Granger stares at him. A dumbfounded stare. He isn't quite sure how he remembers her face in such detail, to conjure it up like this. He never had any reason to memorize her face so well.
"We should probably get him out of here," Granger mutters.
oh, yes, he thinks, because that has worked so well the past two times. he forces himself to his feet and strides toward them, swats at them, trying to make them disappear
His hand met flesh.
"What …" his voice said hoarsely, somewhere far in the distance. Fingers on his hand. A hand on his hand.
He could feel Granger's hand squirming under his, begging for release, but he grasped back tightly, automatically, mercilessly. "It's …" he whispered. No more words arrived. He could not relinquish this grip, just as he could not relinquish his disbelief.
He was at the bottom of a deep lake, a million pounds of pressure resting on the crown of his head. He could not surface. This felt real. This felt more real than he could dare to believe.
"It's us," Granger said somewhat gently, consternation on her features. He stared at her face unblinking.
He made a sudden, violent move. Then Bansherwold's hands were grabbing his forearms, forcing him away from Granger. "Careful," said that soft unfamiliar voice.
Riddle turned his head slowly to look at Bansherwold. They were the same height. Fires burned in the young man's strange kaleidoscopic eyes. Points of fire like those in his twisty jumpy Timeglass …
Timeglass. Riddle hadn't even thought the word in who knew how long.
"Glen," said Granger, a helpless look settling on her features as she faced the stirring witch.
"Sorry, Hermione," Bansherwold said. "We can't."
It seemed Riddle felt nothing as Bansherwold took the Timeglass from his pocket and they all folded away with a bang.
"Ow," Granger panted, when their feet thudded into a solid floor. Tom looked down at his feet. Their nails were hideously long, their skin so pale they seemed to glow.
"When are we?" said Granger's voice, as Tom fiddled with the ruined edges of his papery gown. The thing was fraying, flaking like dead skin. Pale scales fluttered down to land on the dusty hardwood floor.
"Still 2065, though barely," Bansherwold said. "A couple of days have passed since he escaped, which means it's been ten months or so since you left. You'll both be on the Most Wanted List for that little feat, probably."
"Wh – you left him in there for ten months?" Granger said.
Tom looked around numbly. They stood in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. He'd only visited once. Now it was dark, still, and silent. Now, the bubbling fountain had been torn down. Now, all the Floo fireplaces looked long-disused.
"This way," Bansherwold said, heading down the hall. Granger followed. Tom stood, staring at the fireplaces. Empty. Ashen. Dead. Cremated …
Granger seemed to realize what was happening a minute later. She dashed back to Tom, grabbed his arm, and tugged him along.
"I think there might be something seriously wrong with him," Granger muttered to Bansherwold when they caught up. Tom turned expressionless eyes on her. He had no opinion on her words.
"Now is not a good time to make that judgment," Bansherwold said, casting Riddle nothing more than a cursory once-over. "He looks starved, sleep-deprived, possibly injured – hands, look."
Tom held up a hand for Granger's inspection. She looked surprised but pleased at the responsiveness, but upon actually inspecting the hand – which was healing badly – any pleasure faded from her expression.
"We have a Pensieve upstairs," Bansherwold continued, opening the lift.
Pensieve. An image of silvery fibers flickered through Riddle's mind. He blinked a few times and remembered the ghostly feeling of a wand in his hand. Something pulsed deep in his brain like a throbbing heartbeat.
"We? Who's we?" Granger demanded.
The corner of Bansherwold's mouth lifted. "Also, there are potion ingredients at our disposal."
"Who is we?" Riddle echoed.
Relief fell stark on Granger's face at the complete sentence.
"I can talk. I'm not dead," he said, and somewhat to his own surprise, something like irritation wandered through his mind. The emotion tugged other things with it, like a rolling snowball picking up weight, and he found himself blinking a few more times and eyeing Bansherwold's expression with a bit more clarity. He'd promised to kill this man, he remembered, and he pondered doing it now, with his bare broken hands.
The lift clattered to a halt at level three. Magical accidents and catastrophes, Tom's mind told him, and that factoid, too, brought other bits of related information fluttering down with it. The Ministry of Magic. The Minister for Magic. The Minister of 1945, a tall, broad-shouldered woman named Elbitta Ellonore. Professor Slughorn's insistence that Tom himself try for ministerhood.
It exhausted him to recall these things. In fact, he suddenly realized, he was tired to the core of his bones. How long had it been since he'd let himself sleep?
Granger drew the lift door open, and her jaw dropped with it. Riddle, too, could only stare.
He had thought this place was supposed to be filled with cubicles. But they stood in a huge, moonlit entry hall with shining pine floors. The faded brick walls – jagged and uneven, with many nooks and crannies – had red doors set into them at random, some with steps leading up to them, some arranged diagonally against the grain of the brick. Torches danced merrily in brackets by the doors. The splash of warm colors gave the place a cheerful air, along with the fact that the room was filled with witches and wizards, some of whom had camped out in corners with small pitched tents.
"What is this?" Granger said.
"Merlin's Order. An international coalition against the anti-magic movement," Bansherwold said.
"Aldous!" said a businesslike voice. The three of them glanced over to a witch who made her way out of the crowd. She was reed-thin, middle-aged, her gray-streaked red hair tied loosely back in a bun.
"Lily," Bansherwold greeted. "I found them. Penny Clearwater and Fred Perkins."
Granger held out a hand. "Hello. I'm Penny," she said feebly.
Tom did the same. "Fred."
Lily shook both their hands in quick succession. "I'm Lily Potter," she said. Granger blanched. "How on earth did you pair get out of the Crown? The papers have been furious about you for months." She pointed at Granger. "Don't even get me started on what the blogosphere's been calling you. Archaic old twats."
"Er," Granger said. Tom shared her sentiment. 'Blogosphere'? Was that even a real word?
He blinked a few times and realized nobody else was answering Lily's question. "Lightning," he supplied, the lie coming readily, if less smoothly than usual. "Hit our cell block. Temporarily disrupted its power source. She got out the first time it happened, and then it went out again a few days ago and I did the same."
Granger glanced Tom's way and added, "I've been barricaded away in a Hogsmeade cellar for ten months, not knowing where it might be safe to Apparate."
"Do you two know each other well, then?" Lily asked.
"Distant cousins," Granger said quickly, not looking at him. "We were just hiding out together, got caught together."
"Well, we're lucky to have you," Lily said. "We need every warm body we can find. This –" she gestured behind herself at the tangle of people – "is everyone from the entire continent of Europe we know of who hasn't been caught and shuttled out to a colony like cattle."
Riddle swayed a bit. One of his knees buckled, and he staggered right into Granger, who caught him with a strangled sort of yelp.
"Goodness, of course, you'll need food and a place to sleep," Lily said, eyeing him. "Aldous, would you mind? I have to talk with Pi about something. If you've got any questions about what you've missed the past few days, feel free to ask Rose. She's wandering around here somewhere."
With that, she vanished back into the crowd.
Granger helped Riddle straighten back up, her hand pressing against the small of his back.
"You all right?" she asked quietly.
He nodded once, his eyelids drooping. "Under the circumstances, permissibly all right."
Granger let out a long, audible breath. He looked down at her, and she met his eyes.
He found that the sight of them grounded him. Gave him another tiny reminder of who he was.
Also, to his mild surprise, past her ostensible reassurance, he thought he caught a glimpse of anger in her eyes. What would she have to be angry about? It wasn't she who'd been stuck in the Crown for months on end.
"This way," Bansherwold said, guiding them toward the second red door on the left, which was tucked around a corner.
Through the door was a hallway lined with more doors; these were blue. Bansherwold led them about halfway down the hall and ushered them into a door to the left.
Blessed peace, silence, stillness. A pleasantly Hogwarts-ian stone chamber. A large, plain bed that looked like the best idea in the world. Tom had never been this glad to see such simple things. The only downside was the window, which was plate glass, uncomfortably reminiscent of the place where he'd been trapped, almost unfathomably, just an hour ago.
"Something objectionable?" Bansherwold said, scrutinizing Tom's expression. "Feel free to fix it." Bansherwold reached into his robes and produced both Tom's and Granger's wands.
They gawked at him.
Bansherwold placed their respective wands into their limp, uncooperative hands. "Happy Christmas."
More gaping silence from Tom and Granger.
"It's not actually Christmas," he said. "That was a joke."
Neither of them laughed. Shockingly.
Riddle looked down at his wand. It had been blown up. And yet, this thin stick of yew, yellowy and polished and thrumming with the perfect feeling of power …
"The other was a decoy," Hermione said blankly.
"Of course," Bansherwold said, inclining his head. "The army never would have believed neither of you was carrying a wand. There'd be no way you wouldn't have been caught yet. Of course, I couldn't give you anything but a very good fake, Tom, or you'd have known right away."
Riddle sat down hard on the bed. He didn't even consciously think a particular spell as he waved his wand at the window, but the wall on either side slammed in, popping the window out of existence with a slight crunch. He felt as if he'd suddenly relearned how to speak: instinctively and fluently.
He lit the torches on the wall.
His tired eyes fell shut. He dropped off to sleep right where he sat, his fingers wound tight around his wand.
Hermione didn't know what kind of insanity it was that she was legitimately concerned about the mental state of the Dark Lord Voldemort. For Christ's sake, he was already a murdering psychopath; what more was there to be done?
And yet he was all she had of a former age, and she felt herself clinging to that.
She'd pulled the covers up under his chin, given his face a curious once-over. He looked utterly neutral in sleep, just as in animation. The dark beard he'd grown, she had no doubt, would be gone by noon tomorrow.
Hermione couldn't imagine what the ten months had done to him. An arrogant, prejudiced megalomaniac beaten down and incarcerated … by Muggles themselves, no less …
If it had been any other prejudiced person, she knew they would come out hating Muggles all the more for what had been done to them. For some reason, however, she was not so sure about Tom. Harry had told her something he'd once said: there is only power, and those too weak to seek it. The Muggle governments, then, had certainly proven their strength. Hermione felt like Riddle might feel a snatch of grudging respect for that, if he would ever let himself do so.
He looked gaunt. Half-dead. Inasmuch that she knew Tom Riddle needed to be taken down a few hundred notches, she instinctually found the sight of him so piteous that she couldn't say she felt he deserved this treatment. This was not justice dealt for crimes committed; this was punishment inflicted for a crime that was not a crime at all, the crime of being oneself. And Hermione knew something about that.
She'd cast a few charms on his room so nobody could disturb his rest, and then she and Alen had emerged back onto the Level Three Hall.
Alen apparently had Things Of Importance to do around here; he seemed well-known and well-liked, and had disappeared into the group of people quite quickly. She estimated there to be around a hundred and fifty total, a miserable number considering … well, considering the entire continent of Europe. It hurt to remember how many witches and wizards had flocked to the Quidditch World Cup in 1994. Thousands even from small countries like Luxembourg. And now?
Hermione shook her head. No good dwelling on it, she told herself. Just like it was no good dwelling on the fact that Harry and Ginny's daughter was here, apparently spearheading the operation.
She wondered if she and Ron had ever had children, privately thanking God she'd never found that much out.
Alen had advised that she hunt around for any group of people who had food. Everything was communal here, unsurprisingly.
Hermione caught a whiff of some sort of meaty stew and headed for the smell, her mouth watering. She found five people sitting around what might have once been a fancy golden potions cauldron but was now the most unnecessarily flashy stew pot in history. One of them was Lily Potter. Someone she knew – thank goodness.
"Erm … ex – excuse me," she said.
"Penny," Lily exclaimed. "Budge up, you lot. The girl's probably famished. Here, dearie." She summoned a bowl and ladled a gratuitously large portion into it, then levitated it Hermione's way.
"Thank you," Hermione said, settling to the blanketed section of ground to eat.
"Penny, this is my husband and partner-in-crime, Pi," Lily said, nudging the slender man sitting next to her. He nudged Lily back, then lifted a hand in a friendly wave. Hermione blinked a few times. His greying hair almost looked Malfoy-blond, but … well, he was Lily Potter's husband.
"This is Victoire Lupin and her daughter Apolline." Beside Pi sat a spindly woman around Lily's age, perhaps a little older. Her face was an austere, lined mirror image of the ethereally beautiful young woman to her left. "And this is my Chief Lieutenant, Rose Weasley," Lily finished, pointing across the circle to the woman who sat immediately to Hermione's right.
"Rosie. Please," said Rose, holding out a hand. "Only Lil calls me Rose."
Hermione shook her hand, and a lump stuck in her throat the second she met Rose Weasley's blue eyes. They were unmistakably Ron's.
Her daughter.
No chance Rose would recognize her with her hair hacked off this way. Nevertheless, Hermione felt the alarmingly strong inclination to blurt, "I'm your mother!" Luckily, she managed to restrain herself, busying her mouth with the delicious stew.
"I've already told them all how you got out of the Crown, Penny," Lily said. "It's remarkable, frankly."
"Quite," said Pi drily. Hermione could have sworn she heard a hint of the Malfoy drawl.
"Just very lucky," Hermione mumbled.
Lily continued, "There are some things you should know, though, since you've only just arrived …"
Hermione grew more unnerved the more Lily spoke. She clearly had the same confident, brash charisma that Harry had, and the same raw offhand flair that made Ginny's personality so magnetic. Being able to link the mannerisms of this older woman back to her friends as she knew them … she felt as if she were intruding on something.
Lily ticked off on her fingers briskly. "Follow orders. You can question them as much as you want – we encourage it, actually; always better to be informed so no one makes a careless mistake – but follow them. Odds are, Rose is smarter than you, so trust her."
Hermione nearly laughed aloud.
"Don't take it personally," Lily said, misinterpreting the strangled expression on Hermione's face. "She's smarter than everyone. Moving on: we're in a bit of a crucial stage right now; you've come in at an interesting time. For six months now, we've been planning an invasion of an international meeting with the Prime Minister. There's a weak spot, you see – the Minister of Magic used to floo the Prime Minister every once in a while, in a concealed chamber near a certain well-known conference room. Naturally, the Spell-Scourers removed the Floo Network charm, but they did it after they cast the anti-Apparition wards. So there's a blank spot in the ward where, we can, in fact, Apparate in … but only into that fireplace. There are also wards around to detect any magic at all. As you may imagine, that's a bit inconvenient, so we'll be going in in three stages.
"The first group will Apparate there the night before, hide out in the fireplace until ten minutes before the meeting begins, and then they'll remove the Anti-Apparition wards. That group will be five people, led by Aldous Benfry, who – oh, of course, you know Aldous. He brought you here." Lily cleared her throat. "The second band will be led by me. We will all Apparate in at the beginning of the meeting, myself included, and that's hopefully when diplomatic talks will begin."
"Once their shock fades that anyone's managed to escape their ghettoization," Pi said scathingly.
Lily chuckled. "Yes, well, if the shock proves too much and that attempt fails completely, the third band will come in. That's Rose and the rest of our minor army. We're prepared to use force and take hostages if necessary."
Hermione swallowed the last of her food as Lily said, "So, there you have it. The master plan. The President of the Far Ex-American Territories will also be there, plus high-ranking officials from both their governments."
"What about all that technology they have?" Hermione said. "The suits, the robot … things …"
"The charmshock suits, right." Lily sighed. "Well, those protections cover a broad spectrum of basic spells and hexes, and most Dark signatures. But it certainly doesn't cover all spells. In essence, it makes it difficult to duel them quickly, but it's doable. It's better to focus on Transfiguration, charmed objects, things like that, rather than going directly for the strike."
"As for the robots," Rose said grimly, "I've been developing a multistrike hex that acts as a sort of EMP. Should short out their central navigation and targeting at the very least, hopefully shut them down altogether."
"The Prime Minister does have a select few wizard guards, which is so hypocritical it makes me want to throw up," Lily said. "But they won't have been doing much dueling for a long time now, so hopefully they'll be out of practice. Anyway, we don't want to hurt him, of course. We just want all battle elements efficiently incapacitated."
"And this is happening when?" Hermione asked.
"The day after tomorrow."
Hermione was glad she had already swallowed her food, because she sputtered most ungracefully. "Oh. Gracious, that's soon."
Victoire spoke up. "If you'd rather not take part, by no means feel obliged." Her voice was mellow, luxuriant, and her hooded eyes were unreadable. "We have several key members of the Order remaining behind, in case of the worst. Including me."
"Conveniently," Pi said.
"Scorpius," Lily scolded him, and all trace of doubt vanished from Hermione's mind that this was a Malfoy descendant. It had to be Draco's son, she supposed.
Scorpius … bloody hell. He'd really out-Malfoyed himself.
Hermione suppressed an unladylike snigger, cleared her throat, and drew herself up further. "No, I'll go," she said. "I want to be a part of this."
"That's the spirit," Rose said. "Ever been to Parliament before?"
"Oh, Merlin, is that where the meeting is?"
"Right you are. Palace of Westminster. Appropriately grandiose location for Merlin's Order to make its first public appearance, I thought." Lily grinned smugly. "We've mostly been working through stealth, but this … it'll be livecapped to every vidset in the Muggle world."
Hermione bit her tongue. She didn't know what that meant, but she couldn't ask without seeming suspicious. Did they just mean televised?
"And for those who aren't wearing their vidsets at the time, we'll get a postcap up on the internet within three minutes of the event," Victoire said.
Hermione privately gave up on complete comprehension. She'd just ask Alen later. "So there are Order movements across the globe?"
"Absolutely," Rose said. "My father's head of the one in North America; Uncle Harry's gone to Africa …"
Hermione's stomach lurched so violently she shifted in place. Ron and Harry were still spearheading movements. They'd be in their mid-nineties, but of course, Dumbledore had been well over a hundred during Voldemort's second rise …
Rose was listing off some other names, but Hermione could only nod vacantly, trying to appear engaged, trying not to fixate on the fact that she wasn't too far-gone, time-wise. She could still conceivably see Harry or Ron. This future seemed impossibly alien in a lot of ways, but she was sure if Bansherwold hadn't killed her, she would be here right alongside her daughter …
A miserable tide rose in her chest. "I'm … I'm so sorry, I'm exhausted," she said, setting down her bowl. In truth, she wasn't particularly tired, but her heart felt carved of glass and her tongue felt wrought of lead. She could not concoct any more lies. It was draining.
"I wouldn't expect anything different," Rose said. "Go, get a good night's rest, go on."
She didn't need to be told twice.
As she headed back down the corridor with the blue doors, a voice called, "Penny."
She turned. Alen was striding down the narrow hall toward her.
Her anger of earlier resurfaced, and she was suddenly glad he was here. They had to have words. "Hello," she said stiffly.
"The room next to his is empty."
She opened the door and jerked her head toward it. "Come in for a minute, please."
To her mild horror, he raised one eyebrow and said, "Well. My pleasure," before walking in. It took all her effort not to slam the door behind her.
She shut it with marked quietness and rounded on him, her lips pursed, channeling Molly Weasley as much as humanly possible. "We need to talk."
"Always an auspicious start to a conversation," he said, looking irritatingly unconcerned.
She didn't wait for him to finish his comment before barreling forward. "What you've done to Riddle is absolutely unacceptable."
For the first time since she'd met him, he looked legitimately surprised. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"I can't believe you would leave him in there for almost a year!" she snapped. "Do you have any idea what that place is like in any way but theory? I was starting to lose it a little and I'd only been in there two and a half weeks! I doubt you bothered to do your research, but one of the people in our cellblock did nothing but blather to himself all day, another had completely suppressed half her memories, another was having paranoid delusions, and the last was catatonic. Maybe Riddle didn't come out barking mad, but if he were I wouldn't be at all bloody surprised. It's not like he's exactly normal in the first place. He's a murderer, for God's sake; he's unbalanced enough without being left to stew in isolation a century ahead of where he should be! And that's another thing – he has to arrive back in 1945 the same age as he left; there's nothing in the history books about Tom Riddle time-traveling, so it's paramount that nobody knows, and if he's visibly altered when he gets back –"
"Hermione –"
"– no, shut up! Most importantly, did you ever think that by putting his sanity at risk you're putting both of us at risk? Sorry, but I don't want to be around a man who's spent one-eighteenth of his life probably plotting my detailed demise, thank you very much!"
She drew a long, halting breath, her fists quivering. "There. That's it. Now you can try to bloody well explain your reasons. Thanks."
As was so often with any outburst at all, Hermione instantly regretted it. She'd worked herself into an embarrassing frenzy. The silence rang about her, turning her cheeks pink.
The longer he stared, the more she regretted exploding. Merlin … why couldn't she have just remained aloof? Why had she done this, stuck up for Voldemort, of all people? Exhaling slowly, she ran her hands through the short brown curls starting to grow into place on her scalp.
Then Alen shook his head. "I have no reasoning."
Whatever she'd expected, it had not been that. Hermione froze with her hand on her head and stared at him. "… excuse me?"
"I have no reasoning, except for the fact that he is Lord Voldemort, and he deserves it."
Shock froze Hermione for an instant. When she came back to herself, she gripped her wand so tightly she thought it might snap.
Don't say anything, she told herself. He has reasons. He must have them. He might be trying to provoke you …
It didn't work. Mindless, purposeless torture? How could she not protest that? "He deserves it? You're one to talk!" she burst out. "I've read all about you – you're not exactly a savory character. You, one of Grindelwald's chief lieutenants –"
He took a step forward, his eyes darkening. "I was never in league with Grindelwald. Never. He invented that to distract me so he could – so I'd lose –"
He bit the word off.
Hermione waited.
"Lose what?" she demanded, after a second.
His lips stayed stubbornly shut. His eyes burned into hers.
"You owe me answers," she said, jabbing a finger in his direction, wishing it were her wand instead. "You owe me."
He took another step toward her, and she had to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact. Another step, and sudden awareness of him struck her. Broad shoulders. Height. Sleeves rolled up past corded forearms. His anger was a thick mask, making his balanced features nearly unrecognizable.
For one insane second, she thought he might kiss her.
Then he said, in a voice so quiet that the hair on the back of her neck rose, "Don't talk about what you don't understand."
It hit harder than a smack.
"Get out," she replied just as quietly, her voice shaking with rage.
One corner of his mouth drew up the tiniest bit, completely at odds with the fury in his gaze.
Then he said, "Anything for you," his voice low and seething and strangled and honest, and he was gone.
Tom Riddle woke up to Hermione locking his bedroom door.
He sat bolt upright, wand instantly at the ready. Merlin, it felt good to have it back in his hand. "What are you –"
To his affront, she hushed him violently. With a few flicks of the wrist and muttered incantations, she cast several silencing charms over the room. "It's four in the afternoon," she said. "Slept enough?"
He rubbed his eyes.
"Also, are you feeling vaguely human again?" She held up her wandless hand, which he realized was holding a stack of clothes, with half a loaf of bread placed on top.
He stuck out his hand, and she placed the bundle into it. "Eat slowly," she advised. "Your body's not used to it anymore."
"I know," he said, which was true on an intellectual level, but once he started eating, he could not stop. He bolted it down in a mindless haze, threw his bedcovers off himself, stood, and started pulling the trousers on.
"We'll be out of here tonight," Hermione said, turning away, presumably to preserve his nonexistent modesty.
"Why?"
"Movement to combat the Muggle government. Assuming you're up to it."
He laughed mirthlessly.
"Don't kill anyone, by the way; you're not allowed," she said, which he thought was a bit of a heavy qualification.
"Why not?" he said, standing up and buttoning his trousers.
She turned back around and gave him a level glare. "Because first of all, it's an attempt at diplomacy, and because secondly, you shouldn't kill people, for Christ's sake."
He snorted, suddenly filled with restless energy. The entirety of his tremendous mind seemed to have trickled back into his skull over the night, and now he felt practically manic with the need to prove himself to be himself.
"Merlin, you're skinny," she said, frowning in the general direction of his torso. He looked down at himself. 'Skinny' was a generous understatement; he looked positively skeletal. Granger could probably count his ribs from across the room.
"What's the plan?" he said sharply, pulling on his shirt.
She sighed. "More following Bansherwold's orders, unfortunately. He's managed to persuade Lily that we should be in his cohort for the first stage of operations. It'll be us three and two others."
Tom grimaced. "At least we have our wands back."
"Yes. Thank God."
"Why would he start this war if he's going to fight to end it?" Tom muttered.
"That's what I've been wondering. By all accounts, it doesn't make a drop of sense." Granger's brow was furrowed, the frustration he felt scored into her forehead in trenches.
As they stood across from each other, Tom sensed that something had changed. He did not feel inclined to argue with her; nor did he sense that she was inclined to argue with him. He did not want to belittle her or provoke her or even order her around. After all, they had made it this far with her obnoxious insistence on somewhat equal footing, and had proven herself useful on multiple occasions – the Cloak, the directions around the Vatican, even the cryptic suggestions from her older self. Meanwhile, the world around him had turned grim and wild and hostile. This world had gotten him knocked out, shot, incarcerated, and driven him mad. Yet here she stood, this infuriating girl, still determined, still capable, still resolutely there.
She seemed to have become his constant. He had something, and it was her.
It reassured him.
Unsettled, he took his wand from the bed. "Food," he said. "Is there more?"
"Loads. Come on."
"Wait."
"Yes?" she said.
"Where did the Timeglass take you when you left?" he said.
"An alternate universe," she said.
And then, with five minutes' worth of quiet explanation, his entire world came apart.
Riddle was still reeling when the Order ate dinner together. He was still reeling throughout Lily Potter's oversentimental motivational speech when they split up into their three groups. Frankly, he was still reeling when they twisted on their heels five in a row and landed in the fireplace in the Palace of Westminster.
He felt like the entire world was not real.
He'd insisted it was a lie, of course, but Granger's face had held utmost conviction. And why, really, would she lie about that?
But, well … fuck.
The idea of infinite versions of himself … he instantly wanted to murder them all. There could only ever be one of him. He felt insulted by his doubles' potential existence.
In the dim dawn, the small room off the Lords Chamber was murky with half-light. The fireplace was unnecessarily large, but for five people, it still felt a tight fit. Granger was wedged against his left side. A man named Cristick, one of those obnoxious intended-hero types, shifted excitedly against his right.
They'd cast spells all night to prepare to break the wards. It was advanced magic, and this wasn't exactly an optimum location, but it would have to do. Besides, with Tom Riddle, Alengurd Bansherwold, and Hermione Granger working together, they probably could have been suspended upside-down in a piranha-filled tank of water and still gotten the job done.
"Five minutes until we break the wards," Bansherwold murmured. As soon as the wards were broken, Lily's band would arrive immediately, and the magic-detection wards would go off, blowing their cover. They would stream into the Lords Chamber and demand audience with the Prime Minister.
That was the plan, anyway, although Riddle's focus was split entirely in two.
"Stop thinking about it," Granger muttered to Riddle.
"Not all of us can just turn off our thoughts," he muttered back, the statement not coming out nearly malicious-sounding enough for his tastes. He couldn't help it, though: she was the only other person who knew the truth the Timeglass revealed, the only other who understood how hard this shook the foundations of his known world. In fact, she was the only other person who could ever know. What would happen if this information ever leaked? Chaos.
"I know it's impossible to process," she whispered. "I'm serious, just try to put it out of your mind. It'll come in bits."
He didn't reply.
"Ten seconds," Bansherwold said, before Riddle knew it.
He drew his wand, raised it, and as Bansherwold snapped his fingers, five voices muttered incantations, sending counterward completion spells into the air.
A noise erupted like a burst cauldron. That was not supposed to happen – it was supposed to be soundless.
And nothing happened. No allies appeared.
Lina, the woman beside Cristick, swore colorfully.
Riddle glared down the line, wondering which one of them was the incompetent fuck-up who'd done it wrongly. It certainly hadn't been him.
That blasting noise would have alerted the guards for sure. The second group wasn't coming. The wards were still up. What were they to do?
"We'll just have to do it ourselves," hissed Cristick. "Come on!"
"Storm that Chamber with five people? Are you mad?" Tom spat.
But Cristick was already out of the fireplace, and a blaring alarm was already ripping through the room.
"It might be our only chance," said Lina, and followed Cristick out into the open. "Come on, you three!"
Tom found himself exchanging one look with Granger. Determination and hesitation warred on her expression.
After a long second, she said, with steel resolve, "We can fight them," and drew her wand.
He nodded once. In all honesty, it would be the finest of pleasures to fight the anti-wizard filth awaiting them. Almost enough to justify the slight risk of harm to his person.
They hoisted themselves out of the fireplace and ran with the others toward the door to the Lords Chamber. Bansherwold came behind them.
They opened the door to the Chamber and burst through, wands at the ready, surrounded by magnificent carved wooden walls, dramatic oil paintings arching at the head of the room. The ceiling soared overhead.
Tom and Hermione both froze, staring at the Prime Minister. He sat in the practically thronelike chair at the head of the chamber. He wore a dark Muggle suit. He was also horribly and instantly familiar.
He had apparently had a set of false teeth made, but it was unmistakably the elder Gurdy Bansherwold.
"What?" Tom said. The word rang through the room.
Tom didn't recognize the other statesmen surrounding Gurdy, all of whom were in complete uproar. Gurdy himself was arguing ferociously with one of them.
Tom twisted around to look at the younger Bansherwold. His expression was unreadable.
Guards started pouring through the entrance to the chamber.
Cristick and Lina charged forward, transforming chairs into animated creatures that flung themselves at the guards like ravenous wolves. Granger forged ahead, too, casting a cutting charm at the propaganda-laden drapery hanging overhead, which flopped down onto the guards, disorienting them.
Using their charge as a distraction, Riddle crept to the side of the chamber. Keeping his back to the wall and his body crouched behind the backs of the fancy seats, he maneuvered his way toward the clot of statesmen.
When finally he burst into sight, he stood ten feet from the nearest Muggle, who wore a red, white, and blue flag pin on his lapel. The Muggle let out a yell and stumbled back from him.
Riddle didn't care. His target was someone else.
He twisted his wand toward the elder Bansherwold and yelled, "Kreppel ilaz!"
Bansherwold's own spell. A potent, crippling Dark curse, derived from Germanic roots. There would be no way a typical Muggle protective device could be charmed to block the likes of that.
"Look out!" cried one of the statesmen, knocking Gurdy's shoulder. He twisted, and the light of recognition entered his eyes as the crackling stream of crimson light roared his way.
Then a wand was in Gurdy's old, wrinkled hand, and he roared the countercurse. Riddle's curse died in midair, turning to ash, which dropped in a fine powdery line to the polished floor.
The whole room had gone absolutely still. The alarm blared on, but no one seemed to care anymore. All the guards were staring at the wand held in Gurdy's hand.
Gurdy's eyes raised very slowly to the metal device near the back of the room. It was blinking red. Riddle didn't know what that meant, but he supposed it was something significant, in some Muggle way.
Somewhere close behind Riddle, the younger Bansherwold muttered something. Riddle glanced back at him, recognizing the incantation.
Bansherwold grinned and flicked his wand. Riddle could practically feel the Anti-Apparition ward breaking. Silently, as it should have been.
He'd prevented the ward from breaking in the first place. He'd sabotaged the plan …
"Seize him!" yelled a voice. One of the Muggles was pointing to Gurdy.
Gurdy looked around, holding his wand high in wizened fingers. "Try," he called over the alarm's clamor, his expression hard. "Just try it. These are my troops. This is my country. I have led this entire accursed world out of the greatest time of instability since the second World War. Feel free to test their loyalty. Feel free to try."
Nobody tried.
Then one stateswoman said coldly, "You disgusting hypocrite."
Gurdy said, "Avada Kedavra," and the room glared green, and the woman dropped dead.
The alarm cut off, leaving a silence in its wake that could have sliced through flesh.
Then the Muggle with the flag pin said, "Allan, this goes against everything you stand for."
Gurdy whipped around and fired a nasty-looking curse at the Muggle.
Riddle strode forward and blocked it.
Then, unleashing the pent-up frustration of nearly a year without magic, he began to duel the man who had ruined the world as he knew it.
The Muggles swarmed back as the duel set in, screaming and shoving. The guards stood immobile, a swarm at the other end of the chamber. Crack noises burst from the air as the second band of the Order appeared one by one, and one by one they stood frozen in shock.
Riddle's wand had never moved faster. He had never felt more like himself, standing tall with a wand in his hand, his skin scrubbed so clean that the grime of the Crown could never infect him again, his hair swept back and his face shaven. He was back. He was himself, and everyone would know. Everyone would see his deeds and marvel.
He slashed his wand in an X three times, baring his teeth, striding forward. A blast of orange light swooped out and toward Gurdy, emitting an earsplitting scream. Gurdy dove out of the way and cast a flailing chain toward Tom. He Transfigured it into an enormous spider and flung it back at his opponent, who set it aflame, cast it aside, and laughed, laughed, laughed. A terrible sound.
Tom raised his wand. "AVADA –" he yelled –
But someone else had already said the words.
The green jet of light rushed toward Gurdy. He twisted toward the unexpected source, and true dread crossed his features. He made some sort of panicked attempt at a shield that emitted a blinding white light and an unbearable roar. It was over in an instant: Riddle squinted his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, and when the light faded, and when the shield cleared, Gurdy Bansherwold was sprawled dead on the floor of the House of Lords, killed at his own hand.
Tom's ears rang in the wake of the roar. He looked over at the younger Bansherwold, who lowered his wand slowly, some unidentifiable emotion on his face.
It was the strangest suicide Tom could ever imagine.
"If you would do the honors," Bansherwold said, turning to Hermione. Quiet as his words were, the whole world heard them.
Hermione levitated the Timeglass out of her pocket. Riddle wondered why she had the damn thing.
Two crack sounds split the air as Lily Potter and Rose Weasley Apparated into the wreckage.
Then Riddle joined Bansherwold and Granger in the center of the room, Bansherwold laid two fingers lightly on the Timeglass, and they were blasted into nothingness, leaving a silent détente behind them.
"The future has already arrived. It's just not evenly distributed yet."
- William Gibson
Thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know if you're here with me! :)
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