Tom Marvolo Riddle Black

Date of Birth: 12/31/90

Height: 6'3 ½

Weight: 153 lbs.

Eye color: blue

Hair color: black

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Personality type: annoying, arrogant, and extremely snobby

That was how Riddle's file began – save for the last part, which was Hermione's personal contribution and entirely accurate. The prisoner file she'd found in the Azkaban filing room on Tuesday night was clear as crystal in her mind's eye. If she closed her eyes, she could see the row of dark green folders in a dust-caked cardboard box marked B in faded block print behind them, singling itself out of the hundreds of other boxes just like it, as if appearing to her by the divine will of a higher deity. Her inner eye traced the curves of Riddle's feathery signature on the contract agreeing his lawyer Malfoy would represent him in court, black pen and written hastily, fast enough for the ink to barely sink into the fibers of the page.

She had quickly skimped over the unnecessary basics when she found his report – physical features, high school diploma, a printed copy of his very full passport, et cetera – and scoured through until finally finding Riddle's legal papers, which had told her everything from his court date and official alibi to what he was being charged for – and even what detective arrested him. But the included description of the crime scene Riddle was found at was what unlocked a cold horror inside Hermione.

Riddle shot his disabled uncle in the head in cold blood. No known motive had been listed, although he claimed to have acted on self-defense after his uncle stabbed him with a knife, and the evidence of said murder weapon with his blood on it and a shallow wound stood in his defense.

But the story had lots of holes in it.

First of all, little to no concrete evidence surrounded the entire fiasco. One person, a private driver who had brought Riddle to the scene of crime named Peter Pettigrew, was the only eye witness. Coincidentally, he had disappeared entirely since Riddle's arrest. After what Riddle did to his uncle, Hermione didn't doubt the driver was dead or worse. She had tried to find out more about the ordeal by going to the New York Public Library after school and researching various names from Riddle's file on the Internet, but his story seemed to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors…

Everything about Riddle led to a dead end, from his background to the driver who vanished after betraying him to the police. At least, Hermione had learned Riddle's foster dad was a man called Cygnus Black. He was a highly successful entrepreneur, known for making huge donations to the Rescue Dog charity ball every year (or so Google said), and he owned several small general stores throughout Manhattan.

Did Cygnus Black have a history with politics? she wondered.

Hermione was fiddling with new updates for MalgitX and muttering strange computer gab under her breath when Harry finally stumbled into the abandoned Hogwarts courtyard on Wednesday afternoon, messy hair windblown and poking around his head like black thistles. Before lunch, she'd told him to meet her at the fountain as soon as possible, and she was cruelly amused by the thought of what pains Harry must have to go through every time he needed to escape his controlling girlfriend Ginny to meet her.

She was beginning to worry whether he'd been successful in slipping away at all, when she looked up and saw Harry half-running half-falling through wet piles of amber and orange maple leaves that had accumulated overnight during the rainstorm toward her. By the time he was standing in front of her, he had rivulets of mud streaking his tan legs and sneakers, but he still managed to smile at her brilliantly.

"Hey," he said, not seeming to realize his glasses were falling off, and bouncing on the balls of his feet like an enthusiastic Golden Retriever. Hermione almost reached out to fix his askew glasses, but caught herself, covering the motion by pretending to fix a crooked lasso of her rambunctious hair.

"Hey yourself." She scooted over to make room, although the fountain was big enough for twenty-four Harrys and Hermiones, but Harry didn't sit. He rolled up his sleeves and jogged in place, cheeks puffing with strained gasps. At her inquisitive look, he explained, "Big game today, I'm restless. You want to come?"

"I can't, I have Gryffindor work," she said, surprised and secretly pleased he'd invited her. Harry shrugged, his brown muscled legs kicking him higher into the air every time he switched feet. She shook her head. "Quit hopping around like a rabbit for a minute, I have to talk to you. About your parents. And that…family. Well, sort of."

Harry stopped, or most of him did. His spiky black hair was dripping with sweat (he must have run out here) and he fiddled with it as he talked, as if trying to hide his curiosity behind his bangs. "Oh really? What did you find out?" he said absently.

"Well." She paused, estimating how much of the truth she should cut out, and how much of that truth she should tell him. "I don't know for sure, but I think I found the family you were talking about. The Noble Blacks."

He stared at her. "Are you serious?"

She made a so-so gesture with her hand.

"Tell me what you know," Harry commanded, falling on the water-stained stone bench next to her and leaning in. The wind scraped by, hurling a whirl of helicopter seeds and damp leaves their way, and they shielded their faces from the autumn stew until it passed. Hermione could smell Harry's sweat on the air, he smelled like grass and boy.

Wiping sticky russet pine needles off her jeans, she said, "Don't take any of this to heart, Harry, I'm warning you I'm not sure about any of it. All I have are…theories. Not even theories. They're more like theory outlines."

He waved her uncertainties off, unconcerned. "Yeah, I got it, theory outlines, nothing in the world is certain, blah blah blah. Now shoot."

Hermione gave him a sharp look. Harry amended, "Please."

"Well, I did some research into the family you told me about, but the only thing I found that could possibly connect is this guy: Cygnus Black. Have you ever heard of him?" Harry shook his head. "He's a philanthropist, very rich, lives near Central Park, but he's got lots of other homes all over the world," she continued, weaving her fingers together. "He doesn't have a job really, he inherited most of his money, although he owns a shopping strip on Hogsmeade Ave in Upper Manhattan. Now I'm thinking he could be related to your godfather Sirius Black, but I haven't had time to run to the library and check records of the family trees…"

"I can do it," Harry said, without her having to ask. She nodded.

"If they're related," she went on, "then we know we're on the right track."

"The right track." Some emotion flickered across Harry's face, disappearing too fast for Hermione to decipher it. His brow furrowed. "The right track to what?" he asked.

Hermione looked down. Her fingers unconsciously traced the thin veins of a helicopter seed that had caught in her hair during the breeze, she played with it for a while before speaking again. "I don't know," she admitted. "I'm not sure why any of this matters to you so much, why or if the Noble Blacks matter at all, but I want to help. I have a feeling that-" Here she turned faded red above her scarf and avoided his eyes, compulsively cracking her knuckles to draw attention away from her face. "-that I'm supposed to do this. Like everything connects - your parents, Sirius, that family he belonged to, Cygnus Black–" Riddle. "-and we have to figure out how." She ripped the helicopter seed clean down the middle, holding the broken halves together until the wind teased the pieces out of her hands.

"I feel the same," Harry said eventually. Hermione looked at him, eyebrows arcing in surprise. He laughed at her expression. "What? Who doesn't like a good mystery, Nancy Drew?"

Hermione's mouth flattened. "I think I liked Gryff better."

"Look, I'll go to the library before the game tonight and see what I can find. Are you free after six? Meet me on the outside of Central Park, a quarter after by the hotdog stands," he said, quickly formulating a plan. As she watched him, however, Harry's dark eyebrows slowly drew together. "But what if Cygnus and Sirius aren't related?" he said. "Black is a common last name."

"Then we look somewhere else," she said, and the fire in her voice surprised her and Harry both.

"And if they are related, what then?"

"Then we have a lead." She cracked her knuckles, Harry flinched. "And there's one more person who I think might be connected to this – if Cygnus is the Black we're looking for, that is – so I have a hunch about where to go on from here. But first, we should find out if the Noble Blacks actually are the family you're looking for, Harry."

Maybe Grindelwald would know about the Noble Blacks, she thought. The Chief might even be willing to let her look through some old records at the police station, and she could see if any relevant articles or files related to the Noble Blacks turned up. Grindelwald had wanted to have another check-in meeting with her at the end of the week anyway, she could ask him then.

"Sirius always called them a family," Harry murmured, intently picking at his leg hair. Hermione studied him with a frown. "What sort of a family organizes people's murders?" she said, voicing the question the both of them were thinking.

They stared at each other. Suddenly, Harry bound to his feet, struck by inspiration he curled up one side of his lips, and said in the worst Italian accent imaginable, "Today I settled all family business, so don't tell me you're innocent, Carlo."

"Um…" Hermione studied him uncertainly. "Are you high?"

Harry scowled, offended. "No! I'm quoting The Godfather."

"The what?"

"The Godfather." Harry stared at her, in such a way it was clear he thought Hermione's IQ score was in sincere jeopardy. "You know, the movie."

"I've never seen that movie."

He looked horrified.

Hermione rolled her eyes impatiently. "Oh, get over it. What are you talking about?"

Still wounded but coping, he said, "For God's sake, please tell me you at least know what the movie is about."

"Well duh, I don't live under a rock," she said in annoyance, crossing her arms. "It's about the mafia and all that underground crime hooha – oh."

"See?" he gloated. At her failure to share his enthusiasm, however, Harry's mood speedily dampened. "Work with me," he pressed, giving her shoulders a sharp shake. Hermione glared at him until he let go. "Today I settled all family business. Don't you get it? The Noble Blacks are a mob family, they commit crime and larceny under the radar, they control the city behind the scenes, they organize murders."

"You're basing all this off a movie quote?" she asked.

Harry's eyes narrowed.

"Ok, ok," Hermione conceited, lifting her hands in surrender. Harry waited while she turned over the odds in her head. What he said was possible, it was just that it was also…far-fetched. She found herself having a hard time picturing Riddle in a pin-striped suit with a machine gun in his hand. What was worse, she found it entirely too easy to be distracted by the possibility of what Riddle would look like in a pin-striped suit.

Ugh. Dumb hormones.

"It explains why they're all related," Harry added, but she shushed him, still thinking. After another minute had passed, she said at last, "We'll add 'being a mob family' to the List of Theories."

"We have a list?" he said, puzzled.

"Yes, we do." Picking up her messenger bag, Hermione set one foot in the direction of Economics class, and glanced over her shoulder back at Harry, who was doing warm-ups again. "6:15, Central Park," she verified.

"Hotdog stand," Harry said solemnly.

"See you."

He saluted her. "Arrivederci."

"So Mr. Riddle-"

"Voldemort."

"So Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore repeated, ignoring the acid glare shot from across the room at him with comfortable ease. Voldemort sighed inwardly and retracted his gaze to study the popcorn ceiling through slatted grey eyes, all seventy-five and a half inches of him stretched out on the faded plaid sofa opposite Dumbledore's desk. He felt as though he was lying on a fluffy cotton cloud. Contradictorily, he wanted to magically summon a knife and stab that plaid cloud into a hundred thousand pieces, right before he plunged said knife into Dumbledore's serene face.

"I received your former psychologist's notes yesterday evening. It's been a long time since you've seen anyone, hasn't it?" Dumbledore pulled the notes out of a folder on his desk. Voldemort idly wondered what the doctor would do if he grabbed those papers and ceremoniously dropped them into a shredder.

He hated therapy.

His silver eyes fell on Dumbledore's office door, as if he could see the guard standing watch on the opposite side of it, ensuring he remained here for the next thirty-five minutes, and did not attack Dumbledore during his time.

Bloody Wormtail.

"Your psychologist from Wool's Orphanage seemed to believe that you are anti-social and bipolar, but I disagree with his diagnosis," Dumbledore continued. He shifted forward, folding his hands between an Obama bobble head and the gigantic brass cage standing on his disorderly desk, holding a huge colorful bird inside that resembled an ugly crossbreed between a peacock and the thing from Up. Dumbledore called said ugly thing Fawkes. "You have no disorder or mental afflictions, although I was first inclined to believe you might have Narcissistic Personality Disorder – but your lack of a promiscuous history quickly cancelled that theory."

"I promise you, doctor," Voldemort interjected, stretching his arms behind him languidly. "I can be very promiscuous."

As if Voldemort hadn't spoken, Dumbledore went on, "Perhaps you harbor harsh feelings toward the abandonment of your biological parents, which is not unordinary for someone in a position like yours, and can explain a surprising amount of your unique personality traits."

A position like mine. As if Dumbledore could ever fathom all of the power entrusted to Voldemort's more than capable hands. His lip curled. "Does it now, Dumbles?" he asked softly, returning his gaze to the ceiling.

"Yes, but the past is nothing you can't overcome through your own willpower – something I am confident you are not lacking," Dumbledore muttered as an afterthought, shuffling through more mysterious notes. "That being said, you do show some of the personality traits of a narcissist, but not all of them. You're very clever and an excellent manipulator, but I see no signs of stunted emotional growth or a precocious development of promiscuity in your history, and your character seems very genuine to me. Perhaps there's more, something I'm not seeing here." He twirled a strand of his Merlin-esque beard thoughtfully, studying him. "You prove to be full of contradictions, Mr. Riddle."

"I prove to be many things" came Voldemort's airy reply. "Including but not limited to devastatingly handsome and extremely charismatic."

Dumbledore leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his hands over his stomach. He's probably psychoanalyzing me or fantasizing about what new cheap pajama set he can buy with his next paycheck, Voldemort thought with an outward sneer. Everything about the doctor irritated him, from his extremely fluffy eyebrows to the intense way he held eye contact, as if gazing was a challenge – which, naturally, made Voldemort never want to back down first.

"Is appearance very important to you?" the doctor asked.

"Do you enjoy having the interior decorating skills of a blind grandmother?" He gazed around Dumbledore's office, stroking his recently-shaved jaw in contemplation. "Because your office décor speaks volumes, dear Albus. You should look into feng shui."

"You think so?" Dumbledore glanced around his office with a new eye, wispy brows dipping thoughtfully. "I always thought it very homey in here."

"You could do with some green life and windows."

"Yes, natural sunlight is excellent for the health," he allowed, scratching his beard. "Excellent deflecting, Mr. Riddle," he added, as if appraising a pupil. Voldemort went silent at that.

In fact, he didn't say another word for the rest of their blasted appointment. Dumbledore didn't seem to realize his coldness, the rambling buffoon. The old man talked at him incessantly during the gap, telling countless stories about other patients, and comparing the differing intensity of taste between candies Voldemort had never heard of, like Bert's Every Flavor Jelly Beans, and common ones, such as Jellybelly. He was luckily able to tune the inane doctor out eventually, with such success he fell asleep somewhere in between an analysis of Fudge Flies versus candied mosquitos. Later, he woke up feeling better than he had since coming to Azkaban – the couch was a fluff cloud – to find Dumbledore feeding Fawkes and the session fifteen minutes past over.

Voldemort left with the guard outside, suspiciously wondering why Dumbledore never woke him up and made him leave. However, his nerves smarted like shorted electric plugs at one word Dr. Dumbledore had said to him, sticking to his dreams like foul cigarette smoke.

Abandonment.

Walking along the flushed flower trails and towering oak trees framing Central Park, Harry told Hermione every waking detail of how the Hogwarts Founders had won today's game against the Brooklyn Badgers, 12-0. All the while, Hermione couldn't stop glancing at Harry's mouth, which had a hint of pink smeared on it she was pretty sure wasn't ketchup from the hamburger he bought off the food truck on Fifth Avenue.

The mental image of Ginny giving Harry her version of a victory gift after the game made her nearly gag on her chicken gyro.

Ew. Bad mental images.

By the time they finished eating and talking about nothing in particular, Central Park was far larger and deeper than it had seemed the hour before, washed in a filmy midnight blue that transformed the hundred-year old trees scattered throughout the park into mysterious silhouettes, and turned lurking rats hiding beneath the playgrounds into scampering shadows. Daylight savings was weeks away, but New York had already started to turn night-dark around five, and the vast park in result cleared out faster than normal, as hoods as well as rodents came out of hiding…

As they walked around the shadowy blue outskirts, Hermione glanced up at the twinkling skyscrapers and thought of the summer sun with longing.

"I looked up Sirius's family tree at the library," Harry said eventually, kicking what was left of his third hamburger toward an obese pigeon that scuttled away in fear, then came back and pounced the beef like a cannibalistic vulture. He used his nail to pick a tomato seed out of his canine, continuing thoughtfully, "Cygnus Black was Sirius's dad. He had a brother too. Sirius, I mean."

"'Was'?" Hermione repeated curiously.

Harry waited a long time before answering. Usually, summer was the season that made people spill every dark secret they had to bear into the open night, when the oppressive heat and vibrations of lighted fireflies rustling in the maple trees dug under skin and gave them head rush, a need to dump everything in their soul on the person conveniently standing next to them. Tonight, fall seemed to suit Hermione and Harry's confessions just fine however, creeping dead leaves over the sidewalk, and wilting flowers in the blotted twilight.

Hermione noticed a man in a baseball cap sitting on a bench, reading a paperback. Harry kicked a soda can on the sidewalk back and forth between his feet expertly, flipping it into the air with his toe before he swept it aside into the far foliage with a well-aimed kick.

"Well?" she pushed, growing impatient.

Harry looked up, blinking his long dark eyelashes in surprise. "Sirius died," he said blankly, as if surprised he'd forgotten he hadn't told her that already. "In prison."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Prison? Wait- but- but I thought you said you used to live with him."

"For a little while." He smiled tightly, the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "After my parents died, we lived together for years in Arizona. When I was eleven, the police knocked on our door and arrested Sirius. They said he was guilty of the indirect murder of James and Lily Potter. They'd been looking for him for eleven years, and somehow they found us that one day. We were celebrating my birthday, we'd made one of those box cakes and everything. We were about to go to the beach in Ocean City for a road trip."

He stopped and she stopped a step after he did. People were forced to walk around them, grumbling and bumping shoulders while Harry's cheeks hollowed out as he inhaled slowly, the chapped fingers of one long hand digging through his pointed hair. All he wore was his soccer uniform despite the fact it was forty degrees and only getting colder, Hermione realized, but he seemed to be indifferent to the cold or ignoring it.

"I think Sirius was framed by his…ex-family. The Noble Blacks. You know what I mean." He shook his head. "He always said he'd had issues with his relatives – now I know why," he added darkly.

"How did he die?" she said cautiously.

Harry shrugged. "Not sure." He glanced at her, something fierce flashed behind his green eyes. "I just know what I think happened to him."

"You think someone killed him." Not a question.

He laughed humorlessly, and he didn't sound like school Harry at all, who smiled hard enough to illuminate light bulbs and shouted Hermione's name across the Great Hall whenever he saw her. She frowned at him.

"Does it matter?" he asked, in such a way the question shot down any answers. "My godfather died for a crime he never committed. My aunt and uncle weren't happy to take me in, but they were next on my parents' will and they needed the money so they had to. My aunt Petunia is a prejudice bigot and always hated my mom for marrying a Democrat, and suddenly she and her husband and her spoiled kid hated my guts – but it's not them that bugs me. It's-" He broke off and met her eyes with wide-spaced, green amber ones, burning behind his fogged glasses, showing a secret side of Harry Hermione – maybe, no one had ever witnessed before.

Staring, she wondered how she ever thought Harry Potter was just another Hogwarts boy.

"They didn't let me go to his funeral," he said, voice strained with a secret kept for too long. "If they knew what I was doing now…" he trailed, looking away and kicking the sidewalk gently. The breeze ruffled his black hair into crow feathers. Hermione didn't know what to say. I'm sorry your uncle and aunt are total tools?

She kept her mouth shut.

"I want to know what happened to him, for sure. And to my parents," Harry said with quiet intensity. "No, I-I need to know. I'm the only person who gives a damn."

"I'd say I understand, but I don't," Hermione admitted, wincing. The only people she had ever lost were her Jewish grandpa (who she'd only met once before at her cousin's bar mitzvah, and was far too grouchy to stand anyone but himself and beer) and her dad. And she'd known from day one exactly how he died. But if his death had been shrouded in lies and mystery, would she want to know the truth behind it?

She didn't have to think twice about the answer.

"At least we know Cygnus and Sirius are linked," she said, in an effort to bring Harry's former, happier self back. "We know who the Noble Blacks are."

"Do we?" he said colorlessly.

"Yes." Hermione took his hand – it was freezing, she could feel that through her gloves – and squeezed it. She dropped it awkwardly when he blinked in surprise – for a second, he looked like his normal self again – and stuck her hands in her hoodie pockets. She needed to find out what Mom had done with her winter coat. Maybe she sold it to one of Mundungus's creepy friends; it wouldn't be the first time Mom auctioned off Hermione's possessions for a quick fix.

"One more thing," Hermione said, increasing her pace, and smiling with closed lips. "Cygnus Black has an adopted son. His name is Tom Riddle Black, but he calls himself-" She paused for effect. "-Voldemort."

"Vol-de-morsh?" Harry repeated blankly. "What is that, a weird anagram?"

She paused. "Um… Maybe." Focusing, she waved Harry's confusion off, and continued, "Listen, the point is Riddle's been accused of murder and he's in prison right now. Azkaban Prison on Staten Island."

Harry looked at her, astonished. "That close?" His features erupted into blinding fervency. "We have to see him! We can go after school and ask him questions and-" Seeing her hesitant expression, he broke off. "What?"

Hermione scratched the back of her neck. "Tom Riddle won't answer questions," she said uneasily. "He's not even admitting to any crime."

"How do you know that?" he questioned, eyes narrowing slowly in suspicion at the knowledge Hermione knew something he didn't. Which she in fact did.

"Er…I met him." At Harry's bemused look, she elaborated, "I kind of volunteer at Azkaban sometimes."

"Why?"

"Well…I may or may not have been arrested for illegally downloading the new Muse album last week, and the Manhattan police chief may or may not have agreed to waive my charges if I spy on Riddle for him at a prison, because Riddle killed his uncle and is an extreme threat if he gets released – I don't know why though, aside from the murder thing, but I think it's got to do with the Noble Blacks," she said all in a rush.

It all sounded infinitely cooler and more bewildering out loud.

Harry stared at her, slowly shaking his head. "You get weirder every day, you know that, right?" he said.

"Thank you," she sniffed, determined to take weird as a compliment.

"Alright," said Harry, steepling his fingers under his chin like a strategizing movie villain. "If Riddle is Cygnus Black's son, then he'd be part of the mob family too, right? Right," he said, answering his own question, and ignoring Hermione's eye roll at mob family. "So that means...that means…" Harry looked at her for help, lost, but Hermione didn't know any more than he did. This was the part she herself hadn't gotten to yet.

"I'm not sure," she confessed. "Maybe I can get him to tell us something?"

"I doubt he'll agree to that. You just said he wouldn't answer questions."

"I know," she said, deflating. Harry didn't even know the half of it. Riddle was the A-list boy for blistering attitude and arrogance – and Hermione despised every unfairly gorgeous inch of him.

"No offense, Gryff, but why are you doing this?" At Hermione's perplexed look, Harry explained, "I mean I know you're smart, but you're still just a teenage girl. Couldn't the police just – I don't know – get a CIA agent to spy on Riddle or something?"

"That's what I thought at first." She shrugged. "But the police chief, Grindelwald, knew my dad and recognized me when I was brought into the station, so he…did me a favor."

"Really?" he said skeptically.

"Well." She blinked. "Yeah."

"And you didn't consider the fact that your dad might be connected to this…mystery, too?" Harry suggested, looking sly. Hermione raised two pointy eyebrows at him. "Think about it, Gryff," he said excitedly. "The police chief knew your dad and after all this time on the same exact day you get arrested, he suddenly decides, 'Gee, it would be a great idea for Hermione – this teenage girl I barely know, by the way – to spy on some guy from the mafia for me! She could always just join the city clean-up crew, but why not send her to a prison?'"

"It was a spur of the moment thing," Hermione said defensively. "And he didn't decide anything, he was offering me an out. Otherwise I would've been arrested."

"Yeah, you and thousands of other people who download music every day, and rarely get caught for it," Harry muttered under his breath.

Crossing her arms and annoyed far more than she would admit, Hermione snapped, "Just shut up! That's not what happened. And we never agreed that the Noble Blacks are part of the mafia!"

"Au contraire, they are the mafia. I'm sure of it." Harry was irritatingly confident. "Besides, what are the odds Detective Granger's daughter just happened to be the one girl out of thousands of no good downloaders in New York who got busted for pirating?"

Harry had a point. Hermione was grudgingly impressed by his rationalizing - and irritated she hadn't figured any of this out on her own earlier. "But why would Grindelwald arrest me on purpose?" she asked, bewildered.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I don't think it's illogical to guess your dad has something to do with it…and the Noble Blacks."

"No way," she said firmly. Dad? In the mafia? Puhlease. "My dad would never have anything to do with – with the mob – if that's what they are," she said incredulously."Really, Harry, you're talking crazy now."

"Just ask Grindelwald about it," he urged. At her reluctance, he wheedled, "It can't hurt to ask. If he says you weren't chosen on purpose, you can leave the whole thing alone and forget about it. But you should try at least."

She should try. Try to what, see clues that weren't there? Reopen old wounds to dump salt into them? To mix up the past until it was unrecognizable, a glob of lies and mystery...

Hermione didn't want to do any of that, in fact she had no intention to. But she nodded anyway, if just to placate Harry. He smiled and thunked her on the shoulder with his fist – the gesture would've been alright if he didn't hit her so hard – jogging off with a waved goodbye when a taxi pulled up to the curb beside them at his whistle.

As Hermione took the subway back to Queens, she sorted all the theories out in her head, until she had three to consider.

1) Three people in Harry's family had been killed by the Noble Blacks. Possibly.

2) The Noble Blacks were a crime family, which Riddle was a part of – possibly, a big part of – and that was why the police wanted her to watch him.

3) Without doubt, Grindelwald wanted Riddle to stay in prison – because of the murder? Because of the Noble Blacks? – at all costs, and he wanted Hermione, for some reason, to ensure this.

And maybe, maybe, Hermione's dad had had a connection with the Noble Blacks once upon a time. Maybe Harry's parents weren't the only ones who died of unnatural causes.

She didn't know.

The tram stopped on Times Square, 42nd street. Hermione doubled up her scarf, stood up, and walked to the East Manhattan police station with more than one question for the Chief on her mind – and plenty of reason to get her answers.

AN: Thanks for reading! Review for a quick teaser of the next chapter: Can of Worms (which yes, contains Riddle/Hermione fun, which will be increasing in multitude in the very near future). Eep!

Kisses!
ImmortalObsession