AN: Hellooooo lovelies! I am dead tired. Summer film program, art homework, and screenwriting til 1AM take a toll on a chica. I think my brain has turned to pretty, gooey mush.

That being said, now realizing I probably should've said this earlier, not everything in this AU is loyal to the HP universe. So if you notice some things that don't match up to canon, I already know - I just wanted to change it, so I did. Example: Cygnus is married to Druella in the series. Here, he's married to Kate Black.

HUMUNGO thank you to everyone who reviewed and is sticking with this story! It's a slow-burn, but things are picking up more and more with every chapter, I promise... ;)

Voldemort had been wide awake for hours by the time wake-up call crackled out of the half broken intercom in the hallway outside of his cell, spurting commands for inmates to move into place for room checks and head count. Azkaban's renovation plan had yet to reach this end of the prison, explaining why Voldemort's was the only functioning toilet in cell unit B, and the cement wall next to his head was covered in suicide notes and drawings of butchered stick figures dating back to 1942.

Absently, he rubbed the faint angry red lines circling his bare wrists, gifts from the handcuffs he was condemned to wear whenever he left the confines of his cell. A tiny word in ink scrawled across his left wrist, small and delicate as an obsidian-colored vein.

respetto

On the wall next to his foot, he studied a crudely rendered doodle of a unisex stick being devoured by an alligator with flames erupting out of its eye sockets.

"INMATE," a guard passing through the unit shouted, rapping on the bars sharply with her nightstick. He looked up, although he made sure to indulge in a leisure yawn and carefully pop the kinks out of his neck first. "What is it?" he asked confusedly, as if unfamiliar with the technicalities of morning rounds.

The guard scowled at him, staring around the barren state of his cell with a displeased curl to her thick lip. "This cell's a disgusting mess, inmate. I'll have you know I run a tight ship in unit B, and you've got standards to meet," she said loudly, facing him. As she did, she quickly pulled aside the collar of her buttoned shirt, out of view of any other prisoners or patrolling guards. His eyebrows rose, but then he saw the edge of an envelope hidden by her undershirt. Ah.

"Get cleaning, inmate, or I'll strip your privileges next time," she sneered, tossing him the envelope through the bars before moving onto the next cell. Voldemort waited until she had left the floor before he picked up the envelope lying on the floor, curiosity burning inside him like a stroked match. He went back to his cot, facing away from the cell bars, and flicked open the seal.

Kate.

He stared at her girlish lavender-colored stationary, the swirling pen loops of her expert hand for a while before finally rolling his eyes and snorting to himself. Kate had always taken her role as his stand-in mother far too seriously to do anyone good, but it seemed that for the first time, she'd done something useful for the both of them. Her letter explained all the familial affairs he had missed during his past two months at Azkaban – and more, clues she suspected would lead them to the Noble Blacks traitor. Just in case of spies, she would send a confidential over with her true tips later today, and simply write in the weaker points in the letter.

Never let it be said that Kate wasn't an ingenious mob wife.

Cygnus had gone in for chemo again, and although the boss of the Noble Blacks was weak and even more hairless than before, he had enough verve to still be pissed at Voldemort. That's nothing new, he thought, smirking as he read.

His foster brother Regulus was in Saratoga again, making bets on the horse races and tracking the statistics of their gambling pools. Ennie missed him. Kate wanted to start a winter sport this year, and she also hinted at her frivolous desire for him to find a mouse: family slang for girlfriend. Voldemort scoffed when he read it - it wasn't like he hadn't heard thatone a thousand and one times – but he paused on the last note Kate had written him.

One-third of what your father ordered has gone missing. Who exactly did you send to pick up the delivery, Tom?

He read the line again, twice, but the words didn't change.

One-third. Missing.

All the air had suddenly been sucked out of him. He sucked in air between his teeth and swore, loudly and fantastically.

Voldemort's blood had gone ice-cold, goosebumps pimpled over his arms like snowflakes in a freak blizzard. Outside of the automatic twinge of annoyance he felt at Kate's insistence to use his given name, he was shaken by this astronomical mistake – not his mistake, of course… But someone else.

One-third of what your father ordered has gone missing.

100 keys of heroin, gone like smoke into the wind. Poof. Abracadabra.

Under his orders, Senator Fudge had flown the shipment into Washington DC airport approximately two days ago, under pretense of replenishing "empty" medical supply boxes for the earthquake in Thailand last week. That left plenty of time for someone to transfer the heroin two times over – once to a warehouse and then to a discreet location no one save for him and Malfoy knew about – but perhaps the shipment had been relocated by someone once more, to try to screw him over. Obviously, it wasn't the damn senator. Fudge had gotten his payoff and more, and politicians didn't like to leave tracks.

The traitor then? Voldemort would've liked to think finding the rat turning the Noble Blacks inside out could be half so easy, but only an idiot would be stupid enough to try to steal fifteen percent of his money flat, and someone who managed to turn so many of the Noble Blacks' members into blood traitors - and land Voldemort in prison to boot – simply couldn't be this stupid.

So that left him with two options. Either whoever picked up the delivery – and he knew exactly who had – was the traitor, trying to pick apart the Noble Blacks bone by little bone from the inside…or the thief was working for the traitor.

Looking forward to seeing you again, darling.

All my love,
Madre

Voldemort carefully penned out any important lines in Kate's letter with the black Sharpie hidden in his pillowcase before he ripped it up. He would drop different parts of the message in trash cans spread across Azkaban when a guard came to bring him to the cafeteria for lunch later. He would weigh the odds of this epic betrayal carefully before he did anything decidedly vicious.

The slyest snakes didn't go to their prey, after all. Their prey came to them.

"Is Chief Grindelwald here?"

Hermione stood in the main entrance of the East Manhattan police station, attempting to speak to an emergency operator with a huge weave, huger attitude, and even bigger silver hoops. She had burst into the station without warning mere minutes ago; she would've gone straight to Grindelwald's office, if a security guard hadn't intercepted her at the coffee machine and sent her back here.

Very inconvenient.

"Chief is busy," the operator replied, glancing up at her for the first time and frowning heavily. She chewed a wad of bubblegum obnoxiously enough to make Hermione's hands twitch at her sides.

"But is he present?" she stressed, trying to sound polite instead of aggravated. She didn't succeed, judging by the offended lift of the operator's pert nose.

"Yeah, he present, but he busy, like I said," the woman snapped back. Her phone rang and she held up a French-nailed fingertip at Hermione, pushing down the button for the line and spinning around to face the computer monitor as she spoke rapid fire into her headset. Behind her back, Hermione mimicked the operator's excessive gum chewing and sassy ways.

Turning around, she quickly searched the room for a head of tousled silver hair or a charcoal pin-stripe suit. She saw neither.

When the operator finally turned back around, she asked her if she had an appointment.

"I'm his niece," Hermione said offhandedly, figuring it couldn't hurt to go along with the lie Grindelwald had fabricated earlier to reach her at school. "I'll just go see if he's there – and you don't have to take me, I already know where his office is." Pretending not to hear the operator's protests, she grabbed a peppermint from the bowl on her desk and walked away. The operator would have gone after her, had her phone not exploded with three more emergency callers at that very moment.

Hermione strode across the department floor, ducking behind a tall fake urn in order to sneak past the heavyset security guard who'd caught her before (luckily, he was standing at a vending machine, preoccupied by an attractive Latina officer deciding on a candy bar). She slipped into the office section of the building unnoticed, careful to avoid direct eye contact with anyone as she hurried through the halls to Grindelwald's office. Once she reached it, she pounded on the door impatiently with both fists, until it shook back and forth under the force of her blows, and was finally yanked open.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the Chief thundered, before he looked down and saw the short teenage girl standing on the opposite side of his office door. Hermione raised her hand in a wave. "Hermione- What are you doing here?" said Grindelwald, nonplussed and significantly less terrifying. His denim blue eyes narrowed over the shiny wrinkled scar on his cheek. "Did something happen at Azkaban?"

"Er…you could say that." She nodded behind him, slipping her hands into the pockets of her hoodie to hide their fidgeting. "Can I come in?"

"Yes, of course," he said, ushering her inside readily. "Come along, my dear, sit down. Now…what happened?" He sat down across from her at his vast glass desk, sprinkled with knickknacks and photos of what Hermione assumed were his wife and grandchildren. He folded his hands, studying her intently.

"Well, this doesn't really have to do with Azkaban or Riddle," she admitted, fidgeting with her hands. He frowned. "Or maybe it does, I don't know… that's why I'm asking you. To find out."

"Ah."

Grindelwald sat back, seeming resigned. Does he already know what I'm going to say? Hermione thought, surprised. "To find out what, my dear? I hope," he went on meaningfully, "you're not going to ask me for information you know I can't give you."

"Why am I spying on Riddle?" she blurted out. Before he could reply, she quickly said, "And don't tell me I'm not spying, because you and I both know that's exactly what I'm doing – I just don't understand why I am doing it."

"As I said before," Grindelwald began, haltingly, "I knew your father-"

"But you two weren't close," she challenged.

Kneading his silvery goatee, he pursed his lips and nodded, allowing that. "No, we weren't. We were only colleagues."

"So when you offered me the proposal to work at Azkaban, you weren't really looking out for me," she finished. A tiny morsel of her, she distantly realized, was disappointed Grindelwald's help hadn't been genuine - although she would never admit that out loud. "So if you weren't helping me, what were you doing?" she asked suspiciously.

The Chief frowned. "Hermione," he said sharply, fixing her with a stern gaze. "I'm afraid you've got it all wrong. I was looking out for you – I have been for many years, and I am right now. The reason I have chosen you to observe – er, Riddle is less than innocent, it's true, but secretly I've been hoping since I met you those few weeks ago that we would soon have the very conversation we're having right now," he told her. "Because it all comes down to your father."

"My father? How?"

"As you know, Detective Granger worked for me here ten years ago," he said. "He was transferred from the Queens department and spoken of very highly by his supervisor there. He had excellent credentials, I was sure he could take on anything we threw at him – and he did. He solved and closed cases faster than there were new ones to give him at times. He just…he had a…a knack for finding things out, and piecing them together to find answers. He was like a bloodhound tracking a scent when it came to his cases– but that's beside the point. You see, there was one case especially, one your father took such a deep interest in…and I could never understand why, until-" He paused. "-well, until he passed away, actually."

Murdered, Hermione thought, he means until he was murdered. For some reason, people were always afraid to say the word, as if skirting around murder made Dad's death seem less gruesome somehow. But it didn't. If anything, it made it seem worse. Taboo. A shameful secret. "Was it the case with that car thief?" she guessed, not quite so interested in the Chief's story anymore. She already knew how it ended.

"No, that case was years and years before this," Grindelwald said dismissively.

Dumbfounded, Hermione's mouth opened, but he went on, "This case had to do with a school construction scandal. Your father technically solved it, as far as our records go, but he had disagreed with me in this regard. He believed there was something bigger at work behind the bad construction, something the people running the school knew about but were too – let's say, intimidated to make any official statements on.

"The construction company that worked for the school was one of many, who all came from an interconnected network of small obscure companies, none of which were listed or legalized, as we would later found out. This network also threatened the school into hiring them, year after year, or else school board members would supposedly disappear." He sighed, absently tightening his tie, and Hermione waited anxiously for him to continue. "Since Granger – your father, I mean – couldn't get anyone to press charges, much less to testify, he had to drop the whole investigation – frankly, we didn't have the funds or the time for him to pursue trails that led to dead ends – but behind my back, I now know, he never did drop the case."

"Hold on," Hermione said suddenly. Grindelwald looked up. She had her knuckles shoved against the corner of her mouth, and her eyes seemed more piercing than usual as they randomly focused on a photo of the his two blonde grandchildren in concentration. "Who was the school afraid of? What was this big network thingy majig?" she asked.

Grindelwald raised a brow at thingy majig, but said, "That is the million-dollar question, my dear." He spread his hands. "Since your father's secret case remains open today."

Hermione frowned. "And what did my dad do…after he pretended to drop the case?"

Grindelwald shrugged, but his suppressed grin was decidedly boyish. "He went against my instruction," he said, almost fondly. "Granger was a stubborn man, a lot like you – no, no, don't take that as an insult, my dear; it's an excellent trait – and he did what he wanted the way he wanted to, even if that meant jeopardizing himself. I'm very sorry to say this is why he ended up the way he did." He hesitated. "And the story behind his death, as you know it, is far from the truth, I'm also ashamed to say. It was invented to protect your family – you and your mother – and this very department. I will only tell it to you if you want me to, Hermione, because I don't want to hurt you."

Hermione raised two eyebrows at Grindelwald. All that, and he thought she might not want to know? And what the hell did he mean the car thief story was made up? How did Dad die? Did Mom know? No, she couldn't know about this, Hermione decided. And if Mom found out the story of her husband's death they'd been told all those years ago was nothing but a cover-up – a lie – for a far darker tale, then there was no telling what she would do…

To herself, that is.

Hermione decided suddenly that whatever had happened to her father, however terrible or brutal or devastating, she couldn't tell Mom about any of it – no matter how much she might want to later. For some people, the past needed to stay where it had been so carefully filed away.

It was too painful to put anywhere else.

But she still had to know.

"What really happened?" she said warily.

"Detective Granger investigated an Italian crime syndicate." Grindelwald looked past her, seeming far away. "He discovered many gruesome findings, findings no honorable man could've known if he hadn't gotten in the case as deep as your father did. The people threatening the school, as it turned out, were loansharks collecting protection payments for an infamous mob organization."

"Protection? Protection from what?" Hermione said, although she had an eerie premonition she already knew where his story was headed. Half of her wanted badly to tell Grindelwald to stop, but she dug her nails into her palms and waited instead.

"Protection from the people who were behind these companies," he answered. "Granger had suspects, but nothing concrete enough to hold up in a courtroom. He was on the verge of a breakthrough, he'd told me the last time I saw him. We were in the break room and I was telling him about a new case of mine concerning a local kidnapper, when he brought it up…

"We've always known crime families still exist in New York, you see, but we're unable to pay much attention to them – what with more pressing issues like counterterrorism and the city's security – 9/11 truly changed the entire game, my dear – but your father thought he'd found a serious crime family right here in Manhattan, supplying local high schools with smuggled drugs and running a number of illegal activities throughout the Northeast: gambling, drug dealing, larceny. The list goes on forever. He said he'd been on their trail for a good six months. I wasn't surprised – that sort of thing isn't exactly unheard of in big cities, although most people like to pretend otherwise – but I was worried about Granger. Nobody got mixed up in this sort of business and came back out in one piece.

"Despite my warnings, Granger pursued his case. Now I'm not saying I was right and he was wrong to do what he did, but somehow someone inside that mob family he was investigating must have realized what he was up to, because I didn't hear from Granger for three days. I filed a missing person report as soon as I could, but no one saw any signs of him. He'd simply disappeared out of thin air." He snapped his fingers. "Like smoke."

"On the third day, a report of an awful garbage smell from a neighborhood in Brooklyn was made," he continued heavily, "and a dispatched sanitation crew found a body in the trunk of a parked car, riddled with nine bullet wounds."

Dad. Hermione's eyes lowered. It took a moment before she could speak again. When she did, all she said was, "It was the mob family." Not a question.

An answer.

The Noble Blacks killed him, she thought, nails curling into the leather chair under her, hard enough to rip it. Just like they killed Harry's parents.

Grindelwald studied her, his expression gentle enough to make Hermione's stomach wrench. "There's not much I can disclose to you without breaking the agreements of our confidentiality policy," he said, "but because you are a relative, the rules can be bent a little, I think. I actually have something for you." He moved back in his swivel chair and bent down, rooting through filing cabinets while Hermione watched him, puzzled.

"What's that?" she asked, on seeing the half-disintegrated manila folder he held out to her. It looked like a home for dead things.

"Your father's case files," Grindelwald said. He waited until Hermione carefully took the folder from his hands, expecting an uncanny shock to travel up her arms and fingertips when she touched it, or for an image of her father's dark smiling face to flash into her mind. She had nothing left of him except a few photographs, since Mom had sold all of his possessions for money years ago.

But the folder in her hands was only just that. Paper.

Or maybe not. Past the disappointment welling in her throat, she realized Dad's old case files might be a tangible piece of the puzzle she had suddenly ended up in the smack middle of. But when she reached out to open it, her fingers froze, and her heart thundered in her ears like the wheels of a subway as it roared across the underground city grid. She tasted blood and realized she'd accidentally bit her lip.

"You can read them if you want, they're very interesting," said Grindelwald, typing the password into his laptop. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw where his fingers hit the keys. "They have his notes, his speculations on aspects of the case-"

"Why are you giving me this?" she said flatly.

Grindelwald stopped typing, looking around the screen to peer at her. He had a pair of reading glasses on and appeared to be able to tell how bone tired she was simply by glancing at her. He said, "Your father and I were only acquaintances, Hermione," he admitted, voice low. "I know, in your mind, it makes no obvious sense why I picked you to 'watch' Riddle for me. But I know you're smart, Hermione. Very smart. Smart enough to get into the state's best private school on full scholarship. Smart enough to take care of your mother-"

"My mom? What do you know about my mom?" she demanded, straightening. The defensiveness in her voice took Grindelwald by surprise, he blinked at her, confused. "Nothing, dear." He frowned. Hermione did not relax. "Look, you're a smart girl, Hermione. You don't need me to tell you that," he said abruptly, leaning forward, tone intense. "You deserve to know what really happened to your father – which I have just told you – and to use that knowledge to your advantage."

He can't be saying what I think he's saying… Can he? Grindelwald was telling her she should solve the case, the case that got Dad killed and tore her family apart, and all but killed Mom in her sleep. He was telling her to help him bring down a major crime family – or at least, to help in part. He was telling her to figure out the mystery, to make all the puzzle pieces connect.

Everything connected, starting with those case files.

"I've gotta go," she said abruptly. Before Grindelwald could say anything in reply, she had stumbled out of the door, taking the case files, and a thousand too many thoughts with her.

As Voldemort walked into the session room, he found most of the group was already inside and waiting for him. Crabbe and Goyle were sitting side-by-side again (outside of Azkaban, they were called the Terrible Twins for numerous reasons, and a package deal for whoever hired them), and Dolohov, Twitch, Dumbledore, and the volunteer Granger were all present. The chair next to Granger was free and he took it, smirking when she stiffened as he sat down. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he got under Granger's skin a lot deeper than any of the others did.

Alright, so maybe he could fathom a reason or two. He did compare the girl to a Gremlin last session, didn't he?

Cuss arrived shortly after Voldemort, muttering profanities under his breath on the way to the last empty seat and shaking from withdrawal. Granger watched him with an unfathomable expression as he sat down. Dumbledore said, "Welcome back everyone. We're going to pick up where we left off last time, and start by stating what you each found better about your day today. Mr. Crabbe, you may go first."

About here, Voldemort tuned out, and let his thoughts wander where they may. By the time the statements came full circle, Granger was finishing a spiel about a test grade or something equally uninteresting, and Dumbledore had an expectant, patient smile waiting for him.

Shrinks.

Voldemort looked up thoughtfully, lacing his fingers in his lap as he considered a response. Finally he said, "Because I am required to be here, where there was a slim chance of enjoyment in my day, there is now none." Twitch snorted in agreement, while the other prisoners chittered and dissolved into sardonic laughter. Dumbledore quickly reclaimed their attention, however, much to his annoyance. Granger never made a sound.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl, wondering what her sudden vow of silence was for. If it had been last session, she would've been up in arms by now, and he had been hoping to find out just how much she knew about him since her claims to know about his charges and the Noble Blacks. He wanted to know what she knew, and whether she could potentially become problematic for him. It was even possible she worked for the traitor.

But he couldn't get his answers if she wasn't speaking.

"You're quiet today," he said softly enough for Dolohov, sitting on his other side, not to hear anything above a murmur, although Dumbledore's sharp look toward them showed he wasn't fooled. He ignored them both. "How come?" he asked, looking at Granger sideways, who pretended not to hear. A grin edged his mouth. Challenges were always more fun. "Boy trouble again, Chaka Kun?"

Ah, there she is. Granger's teeth sawed back and forth, and just as quietly, she hissed back, "Nope. Just your conceited, pompous ass." And she said something a little more incriminating than would a famous funk singer.

"Watch the language, please."

She didn't answer, save for a choice digit. He rolled his eyes.

There wasn't another chance to talk, as Dumbledore chose to split them into three-person groups at that moment – the man loved group activities more than Jelly Belly, it seemed – and Granger was sent to the opposite side of the room with Crabbe and Goyle, walking away from him all too eagerly. Voldemort bit back his irritation, standing to join Cuss and Dolohov. Granger would have to be cornered later.

Too soon however, session ended, and he still didn't know any more about Granger than he had before. She and Dumbledore stayed behind in the room to clean up. Reluctantly, Voldemort filed with the other inmates into the hallway, lingering at the back of the line in hopes of catching some of the shrink and volunteer's conversation. He didn't hear anything more engrossing than the outline of Dumbledore's next lesson plan, and three absent "uh-huh"s on Granger's end before the door closed. He waited for them to reemerge from the classroom during head count, brain working furiously.

Voldemort's intuition was never wrong, and he had a feeling about Granger. A bad feeling, a lot like the crawl he'd felt slither down his spine the first time one of the Noble Blacks' members was arrested by Detective Kingsley. What if Granger is working for him?he thought suddenly. The prospect hadn't occurred to him before, but it would partially explain how Kingsley kept finding out about the family operations, and why Granger was so nosy.

He continued to stay in the back of line and didn't move as the other inmates walked away, nodding at the guard who shot him a questioning look. The guard nodded back and turned around, pretending not to notice anything amiss. Azkaban was under his thumb, lock and key.

Voldemort slid back out of the range of a red, hiding behind a column until Dumbledore and Granger came out. Ten minutes later, they did, speaking casually as they meandered down the hallway.

"Today fared much better than last week, Miss Granger," Dumbledore was saying approvingly when they exited the door. "Your interactions with everyone are excellent."

Granger frowned. "Almost everyone," she corrected.

Dumbledore hesitated, while Voldemort strained to hear more, as the two became farther away from him. "Yes, but that's expected. Riddle is more difficult than the others." At this, Voldemort snorted under his breath. Difficult? They hadn't seen an iota of difficult yet…

"Why is that?" Granger asked casually. As casually, in fact, as he would have if he wanted to dig up dirt on the enemy.

"I do not discuss my patients in that aspect," Dumbledore said sternly, instantly shutting her down. Voldemort smirked at the shock on Granger's face. Not as smooth as you thought you were, are you, Gremlin? he thought at her smugly. "It goes against the confidentiality code-"

"Of course," she said, turning slightly red. "I didn't mean it like that though. I was wondering about his case, I mean…" Her voice lowered. "I know what he was charged with."

"You do?" Dumbledore asked, before his ridiculously wispy eyebrows rose in a clarified manner, and he answered his own question. "Ah, I see. You came across his file, while you were organizing."

Granger seemed embarrassed to be caught in the act, but only minutely. Voldemort wondered what Dumbledore meant by "organizing", and how Granger had gotten her grubby little hands on his file. What else did she do around here? "I glanced at it," she admitted. Her voice lowered, Voldemort could barely hear her. "Do you think he really did it though? Killed his uncle?"

They were almost to the end of the hallway now. He craned his neck to listen, watching their shadows elongate and fade as the distance between the three of them increased. He barely heard the doctor reply, "I can't say. We'll have to wait for the trial, just like everyone else…"

That was the last he heard. Voldemort stood there alone in the shadows, breathing in the harsh scent of antiseptics, and running over their conversation in his head. Granger was more inquisitive than he'd anticipated, but everything she had said was more or less inconsequential. The only thing about her that really bothered him was the fact she was asking about him at all.

How should he deal with her? Was there anything to deal with at all?

Even if there wasn't, he couldn't afford to be gullible with a traitor on the loose. He had already been blindsided once, he wouldn't allow himself to be fooled again…

And if he let Granger ask him whatever questions were ticking under that extraterrestrial hair of hers, then he could find out exactly what she was after – without revealing anything important, of course – and decide what to do with her then. After all, he doubted Granger could tell the difference between a lie and a bulldozer. Deceiving her into trusting him would be tricky, but nothing he couldn't manage in time.

Crushing her would be delightfully easy.

The night ferry back to New York smelled like the girl's bathroom at Hufflepuff High – definitely not a good scent, or without piss and ladylike unpleasantries. Hermione slept for most of the trip, startled awake by the foghorn blasting across the water as they pulled into port and docked. She disembarked and walked slowly to the subway, shaking off the last clingy remnants of sleep and stretching her arms above her head with a shiver. It got colder every night, as winter inched closer to her wicked throne and chased the fall back into fox holes.

Distantly, Hermione realized that she was starting to develop a peculiar routine. Wake up, go to Hogwarts, analyze the Noble Blacks family with Harry, do homework, go to Azkaban, try to wring information about Riddle out of Dumbledore (most of the time without success, unfortunately), and go home and lie in bed wondering what all the bits and pieces meant despite the fact she was dead tired and should have been sleeping.

Harry did almost the exact same thing, except he had soccer instead of a volunteer job at a prison, and a jealous girlfriend instead of a moody cat. He'd also decided they needed to go to Hogsmeade Square this weekend for investigation after Hermione related what Grindelwald told her about her dad to him. Although, she still hadn't read the case files yet.

She was scared to.

In Hermione's mind, reading Dad's case files was akin to opening a big, ugly can of worms, or using a Ouija board. It was suicidal and dangerously stupid. Why would she voluntarily do something that would probably get her killed?

For the same reason Dad did, she thought, answering her own question and watching the lights in the subway tunnel flash by the smudged windows. For the thrill of solving a puzzle no one else can figure out. Suddenly, it made much more sense why she liked Geometry so much.

Hermione walked the rest of the way home, stopping in a bodega to pick up groceries and a pint of ice cream. She took a plastic spork from the salad bar and devoured the ice cream outside, tossing the empty carton in a trash can the next block over. "Delicious but not nutritious," she muttered to herself, picking up her spoils again, which she probably should've had the cashier double bag in circumspect. She stopped at a crosswalk, vacant save for a passing mail truck and a man in a baseball cap waiting to cross.

Hold on.

Hermione glanced at the man again, and two things in her brain simultaneously clicked into place. She recognized the stranger, although she didn't know where from. Unease whispered up the back of her neck. She glanced over the street they stood on. Empty.

No witnesses.

Without waiting for the light to change, she cut off the mail truck on the road and jogged across the street, trying to look as casual as possible. As if she wasn't rushing to get home. As if she didn't realize she had a stalker who was following her.

Three more blocks until her street. She forced herself to keep an even pace, resisting the overwhelming urge to look behind her, or break into a dead sprint. Why was someone following her? Who was it? Oh hell, if she turned into one of those Lifetime horror stories, she was going to be so pissed.

Suddenly, the handle of one of the cheap plastic bags snapped, and boxes of mac and cheese, milk, nonperishables, and a package of tampons went tumbling a few feet into an alley. Hermione swore, debating between abandoning her stuff – even if it did cost $14.61 – or grabbing it fast enough for the creepy guy not to catch up, so she could eat something besides ice cream for dinner. A soup can of chicken noodle rolled away from her, the Campbell's label gently tapping the side of a dingy blue dumpster.

Tick-tock, tick-tock…

Fast as light, Hermione snatched her stuff, but when she straightened her vigilant eye caught a shadow moving ten feet away from her. Toward her.

Except it wasn't a shadow.

It was a person.

I need to get the hell out of here. Hermione concentrated on moving naturally, getting to her feet, and walking away with her arms full of food and feminine products as her heart throbbed somewhere around her tonsils. She listened intently to the whisper-quiet footsteps tracking behind her, focused on the corner ahead of her. That was her street. As soon as she got to the corner, there would be enough distance between her and the creeper for her to run like hell, and if he caught up to her, she would hurl soup cans at his head until he backed off, or – preferably – fell and got a concussion.

She turned the corner. Without hesitating, she took off as soon as she was out of the man's view, running faster than she ever had in P.E. class, than she ever had before, and prepared to scream murder if two burly arms suddenly wrapped around her from behind-

Almost there. Five more steps.

She tossed a glance over her shoulder without seeing what was there, long jumping over the steps to her apartment and slamming her key into the lock. Her hands shook so hard it took four tries to get it to go in and twist, and she glanced over her shoulder again and again, waiting for the man to appear and launch down the stairs after her. Finally, the door unlocked, she kicked half the groceries ahead of her and raced inside, shoving the door behind her hard enough to make the walls tremble.

Hermione collapsed against the door gasping, sliding the deadbolt home and turning around once she was brave enough, to peer out of the looking glass. She felt Crookshanks' fluffed tail wind around her knee like a soft vine as she scanned the entrance outside for an intruder. But there was no one in sight.

God. The one time she didn't bring her Taser.

Her bipolar cat had wrapped himself around her leg like a knee sock and was purring fastidiously. Hermione picked him up and crushed him to her, burying her face in his tangled fur – Crooks never let her brush him – and setting him back down before he could twist around to bite her. In the living room, Mom was dead to the world, strung out on the couch like a popcorn garland someone forgot to take down after Christmas. Hermione wanted to tell her she thought she had a stalker, but at the same time she felt too guilty for leaving her mother home alone so often to wake her up.

She studied her quivering hands – sand brown in the dim light, with stubby, earth fingers – and curled them into fists. It was high time she looked at Dad's case files, because whether she liked it or not, a can of worms had already opened itself on her doorstep.

No one could close it again, but her.

AN: Thanks for reading. Leave a review if you're feeling kind (or any emotion. Yeah, any emotion. So unless you're a zombie, leave madre some sugah). *creepy eyebrow wriggle*

Kisses!
ImmortalObsession