Chapter Eight

From the moment Hermione realized she held Lord Voldemort's very first, undamaged horcrux in her hand, she'd been obsessed. No, that wasn't a strong enough description for how she felt. It was consuming. Every second she was awake she thought about the diary. When she was able to fall asleep for a few hours at night, her dreams were filled with the young Tom Riddle.

Did she finally have her explanation for why the Room of Requirement sent her back in time? Was she supposed to begin the horcrux hunt thirty years earlier? If she could somehow find and destroy all of the madman's created horcruxes, could she prevent the war before it ever began? How many innocent lives could she save just by ensuring Voldemort was never able to reach his full power? In 1965 he didn't have as many horcruxes that needed to be found and destroyed as he did in 1998. Theoretically, it should be easier to defeat him in his younger state. Of course she was far from foolish enough to believe defeating Voldemort would ever be simple.

Once she knew without a doubt that she had Voldemort's first horcrux, Hermione began making a thorough list of what she remembered from Harry and from her own part in the horcrux hunt. She was also glad she still had her beaded bag. Everything, with the exception of the canvas tent she borrowed from Mr. Weasley that was left behind when they were captured by the Snatchers, remained inside. Though there were undoubtably painful memories inside the bag she would rather never be reminded of again, if they could help accomplish what she was certain she was in the past to accomplish, the terrible memories would be worth it.

She made a fresh list of his horcruxes. The first was the diary in her possession. He'd created that with the murder of Moaning Myrtle while they were both still at Hogwarts. It chilled her to imagine someone so evil at such a young age. Were some people simply born with darkness inside them?

Only a few months after Voldemort killed Myrtle he murdered his own Muggle father with his Uncle Morfin's wand to create the second of his twisted treasures. With his uncle trapped in Azkaban for a murder he didn't commit, the rest of his blood relatives had been dead for years. Professor Dumbledore found Marvel Gaunt's ring hidden in the depressing shack the last of the Gaunt family lived. There was no reason to suspect it wasn't still there at that very moment. She would just need to find the ruins of the shack and search for herself.

The rest would be tricky because she wasn't sure where they were in that year. She knew where they would eventually be, but that didn't help much if she was trying to stop the war before it ever happened. Salazar Slytherin's locket was turned into a horcrux with the murder of Hepzibah Smith. That tragedy took place when the young Tom Riddle was working downstairs in Borgin and Burkes. He left soon after with Helga Hufflepuff's gold cup. Because he wouldn't have been working at the shop when those were transformed she doubted she would find them hidden in the flat or even elsewhere in the shop. The cup would end up in the Lestrange vault at some point and the locket wouldn't be moved to the Crystal Cave until 1979. Those two items could be anywhere.

Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem could very well be still hidden in Albania for all Hermione knew. Tom Riddle wouldn't have the opportunity to hide it in the Room of Requirement until he applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor position with Professor Dumbledore. When exactly did that happen? She didn't know exact dates. All her old notes said was it was hidden approximately ten years after Hepzibah Smith's murder when he returned from his decade or so of traveling abroad. When did he return? Had he already come back in 1965? She didn't know how to find that out without drawing potentially negative attention to herself. If she could find old newspapers to determine when Hepzibah Smith was murdered she would have a better idea for a timeline.

There were so many questions without answers it made her head spin. Other than tracking down Voldemort himself and asking him outright in plain, simple English where he'd hidden his treasures, she could only speculate. It was almost a madness that overtook her when she was alone in her room scribbling down her thoughts in her own diary she had to keep well-coded. If anyone stumbled upon the book, she hoped they would simply assume she'd lost her mind. Perhaps she had.

"I found these books in the cupboard in my room. Do you want them? They look like textbooks."

Draco dropped a small stack of three books on top of the dining table where she'd been working on her NEWTs practice tests. Even though the exams were still months away, Hermione tried to devote as much time as she could revising. It wasn't easy with her horrible job and her own private research.

"Thank you."

She picked up one of the dusty volumes, saw it was definitely a potions textbook, and set it back down with a sigh. Potions would have to wait until her mind was clearer. It had been a struggle to read and retain the knowledge she required to be successful. She was worried she wouldn't be ready when the time came. It was too late to apply to attend Hogwarts. Over a month of classes had already taken place. She would be too far behind before she even started.

"If I ask you a question, will you promise not to get mad?"

"How can I make that promise, Draco?"

Her temper had been much shorter than usual. Unsure whether to blame her unhappiness with her job or her exhaustion from lack of sleep or something else entirely, she usually tried not to think about it. Draco noticed, but tried to remain patient.

"When was the last time you went outside? Took a walk? Breathed in some fresh air?"

She felt her defenses go up at once. What did it matter if she'd been inside for whole stretches of several days at a time? There was too much for her to do, too much to plan and worry about than the frivolity of taking a useless walk.

"If you're inquiring about my health, Draco, I can assure you that I feel perfectly fine. You don't need to worry about me."

He acted as if he was going to say something in response, but clearly thought better of it. With a sigh, Draco took his cloak off the hook on the wall and made his exit. It was his day off. He'd mentioned the evening before that he was going to go somewhere and asked if she wanted to go with him. She couldn't remember the details, only that she'd thanked him but declined due to her plans to spend all day in her books.

The very moment she heard the door click shut behind him, Hermione felt a wave of overwhelming guilt. He had only been trying to be nice and thoughtful. Why did she have to snap at him like that? For a woman stuck in a dangerous world alone, she couldn't afford to alienate her one friend. It was still odd to think of Draco Malfoy as a friend, but what else was he? Nothing said he had to remain with her or worry himself about her health.

She looked at the small stack of books he'd found in his cupboard. He didn't have to offer them to her. There was a time in their lives when he would've rather set them on fire than help her in any way. The war changed them both. Why was it a struggle at times to remember he wasn't the same person he used to be? The past made him kinder while it seemed to have the opposite effect on her. She didn't like the bitter, arrogant nightmare she was becoming. Why did it feel like she was losing all control?

No longer able to focus on the practice exam she'd been working on, Hermione reached for the old potions book. She couldn't help remembering her sixth year when Harry became obsessed with Professor Snape's old textbook. Did Harry worry about her being gone? Was he even aware or did she disappear completely from all of their minds? Time travel was a complicated subject that no one fully understood.

Unlike the Half-Blood Prince's potions textbooks, the one she held had no scribblings in the margins or proof whatsoever it had been read at all. Curious to know who it might have once belonged to, she flipped to the front cover. She wasn't sure why exactly, but she wasn't surprised to see the tidy scribble in blue ink: Tom Riddle. He must've left his old flat in a hurry to leave anything behind. The other books Draco found were likewise inscribed. She searched each of them for any notes he might have written. Only his name gave any indication they'd ever been owned.

Hermione didn't want to be reminded of the wizard who would one day soon become Lord Voldemort. Stacking all of her books into a neat pile, she got up from the table. Maybe Draco was right about her needing some fresh air. She put on her own cloak. A walk outside could help clear her head and if she was lucky, she'd soon be in a much better mood.


A few days later Hermione stood behind the counter in Borgin and Burkes dusting a particularly garish set of golden statues the two owners of the shop were proud of. Nearly four months in her position, she had yet to spend more than a couple of minutes around Mr. Burke. Usually he only came in once a week to argue with Mr. Borgin. She made certain to be as far away from the private office when that happened.

Unfortunately, she'd been less successful in avoiding Mr. Borgin. The wizard rarely went home. She wasn't sure why and thought it best to mind her business where he was concerned. Borgin was not someone she wanted as an enemy nor did she want him as a friend. As long as he left her alone, she didn't care.

The distraction spells continued to work. Certainly not a long-term solution, she felt confident in her ability to avoid being caught alone with him in the dark stockroom. It was more difficult to avoid him inside the main room of the shop, but often customers helped provide a little bit of safety from the cretin's wandering hands. She'd only had to feel the brush of his hand across her arse once to know she never wanted to feel it again. He claimed it had been an accident and apologized profusely, but she wasn't stupid by any means. The amused twinkle in his eyes gave his true thoughts away.

It occurred to her while she kept the disgusting shopkeeper in the corner of her eye that she might be able to get some of the answers she needed from him. Less than twenty years earlier Tom Riddle had been employed in the shop after he left Hogwarts. Borgin was too young to have worked with him, but his father did. Maybe he remembered something about the wizard from when he was a child.

"Mr. Borgin, do you know someone named Tom Riddle?"

Immediately he was suspicious. With narrowed eyes he stared at her for several seconds. Used to being ogled by him, it was different. Had she been foolish enough try to ask about him even so casually? Memories were long in the wizarding world. She had to be careful.

"I only ask because I found some books in the flat upstairs with his name in them. I thought he might want them back."

"Burn them if you want. He doesn't need them. No one in this shop has seen him for years and good riddance."

She had more questions about the former shop clerk, but knew she shouldn't ask. Borgin's angry response had been surprising. Part of her just assumed based on the shop's clientele and the sorts of dark witches and wizards it would cater to in the future that the proprietor was a Lord Voldemort supporter. Clearly their history was more complicated than she knew.

"Let me offer you some advice, Miss Granger. If you're ever unfortunate enough to find yourself in the presence of Tom Riddle, run. Stay as far away from him as you can."

Borgin offered no further explanation. Moments later he disappeared into the office where he remained for the rest of the day. Was it simply because she brought up Tom Riddle? She was even more intrigued. Would Borgin be willing to explain more when he was calmer? She quickly dismissed any thoughts about asking him more questions. Not only did she not want her interest in the future Dark Lord to be noticed, she was certain she wouldn't like what Borgin would ask of her in exchange for more information.

As she climbed up the stairs to the attic after the shop closed, Hermione wondered again if she should be honest with Draco about what she was up to. More than once she'd considered telling him about the horcrux she found hidden in her bedroom wall. Didn't he have a right to know about the grave potential danger they could both be in? Something kept her from being honest. She still wasn't sure she could fully trust her old rival.

The diary was never far from her. Since the day she found it, Hermione kept it in her beaded bag. She never left the flat without the bag. Even when she slept at night she kept the bag underneath her pillow next to her wand. It was far too important to leave to chance. If the diary was lost or stolen she wouldn't be able to complete her mission. More and more she became convinced that the Room of Requirement sent her back in time to kill Voldemort herself. She couldn't trust anyone else to do it.

Until she could destroy the diary, it couldn't leave her sight. Unfortunately, she didn't know how to destroy it. During the final battle she destroyed the Hufflepuff cup using a basilisk fang just as Harry used one to destroy the diary years earlier. If she had a basilisk fang it would already be destroyed, but those were very hard to come by. Costing an ungodly amount on the black market, she would never be able to afford one. The Ministry kept tight regulations on anything related to basilisks so even acquiring one legally was simply out of the question.

Professor Dumbledore destroyed Marvolo Gaunt's ring with the Sword of Gryffindor. Likewise, Neville used it to cut the head off Voldemort's snake Nagini, but that wasn't an option either. Until the sword was imbued with basilisk venom by Harry when he killed the monster, it was nothing more than a pretty, goblin-made sword. Nothing would make Hermione return to the Chamber of Secrets. It was horrible enough when she and Ron went down there with the basilisk dead and rotting. In 1965 it was asleep but still very much alive. Nearly being killed by the creature once was enough.

The only option for destroyed horcruxes left to her was probably the most frightening and unnerving. Fiendfyre destroyed them. She had to suppress a shudder every time she thought about those horrible moments in the Room of Requirement when Crabbe tried to kill them all and died himself. It was a dangerous spell even in the hands of a competent caster. A lot could go wrong if she dared to try it.

Of course she also had to deal with the fact she didn't know how to cast Fiendfyre even if she wanted to. Precisely because it was so dangerous, book publishers weren't usually in a rush to publish instructions for the masses. None of her books, even the truly disgusting ones she stole from Professor Dumbledore's office after he died, described the proper wand movements or incantation. If it was mentioned at all, it was with a warning to never attempt it. She doubted she would find any books in Flourish and Blotts or Diagon Alley's public library that would help either.

"Draco, do you know how to cast Fiendfyre?"

The question just tumbled out of her mouth one evening while they were having dinner. Vincent Crabbe had been one of his best friends and they were in the same House. If his friend learned how to cast Fiendfyre from the Carrows during seventh year, it wasn't unreasonable to assume he'd been in the same lessons.

"Why do you want to know that?"

Another window opened where she could potentially tell Draco everything. As much as he hated Voldemort and what happened to his family because of him, he could be a very powerful ally. She wasn't sure why she wouldn't tell him. Didn't he deserve to know there was potentially a way to defeat the wizard responsible for so much pain and heartache in his past?

"Oh, that's not important. I just assumed you knew."

Draco's suspicions weren't assuaged by her nonchalant response. If anything, she could tell he was growing more guarded by the second. How could she put his worries to rest without telling him the truth? She was reluctant to put him into danger. Knowing about the existence of Voldemort's horcruxes would potentially shorten their lives.

"I do know how, but I'm not going to tell you. Not unless you explain to me why you want to know. Fiendfyre is dangerous. It's not something you can afford to be reckless about. Look what happened to Vince."

"It's just harmless curiosity."

"I don't believe you."

Offended, mostly because he knew Draco was right, Hermione made a dramatic show of rising from her chair. No longer the least bit hungry, she could feel that familiar irritation that was never far from the surface start to bubble up. Less and less she seemed capable of controlling her anger, especially where her flatmate was concerned. She didn't even make an excuse why she was escaping to her room and he didn't bother to ask. He'd grown used to her strange fits of temper.

For days after their strained conversation she was successful in avoiding Draco. The way he stared at her when she mentioned Fiendfyre set her on edge. It was too important to keep her secret about the horcrux she had in her possession and the others she hoped to find and destroy. He could be a complication. If he prevented her from completing her mission, she feared she might have to remove him from the equation. Hermione didn't want to hurt him, but some things were more important that…"

"Hermione? Hermione."

Drawn out of her thoughts, she was surprised to see a smiling Igor standing only steps away. She hadn't even heard him enter the stockroom. That was concerning. What if he'd been Borgin? She couldn't allow her thoughts to drift so far that she stopped being aware of her surroundings. Inattention was just asking for trouble.

"Oh, hello, Igor. I was…"

"Lost in your thoughts. I hope I didn't interrupt any delicious daydreams."

The waggle of his eyebrows drew both a laugh out of her and an eyeroll. No doubt he would be disappointed to know what her thoughts consisted of lately.

"Don't you have a cauldron you should be obsessively staring at?"

"Not today. My potions master was kind enough to give me an extra day off this month. We're working on a rather delicate potion right now that can't be disturbed while it simmers for two days. He doesn't trust me not to make a mistake, so he told me to go home until tomorrow evening. I didn't argue."

"What's it like being an apprentice? It sounds fascinating."

Igor's rich laugh filled the stockroom, further encouraging Hermione to smile. His younger self seemed so different from the cold, haughty man she met years earlier. What did he experience, or would experience, that changed him so?

"Sometimes it's fascinating, but mostly it's tedious, monotonous boredom. I know more cleaning spells than potions. I chop and prepare ingredients most days for twelve to sixteen hours. It's hard work and I've been tempted to quit more times than I should admit to, but it's all necessary if I want to be the best. My potions master rarely takes on apprentices. Lots of people ask, but he usually turns them down."

"Why did he agree to take you on?"

"My grandmother. Either he owed her a large favor or their friendship is far closer than I want to imagine."

His disgusted grimace and dramatic shudder were amusing. Hermione could understand why he was sent home. If he joked around with his potions master even just a fraction as much as with her, she couldn't blame the esteemed potioneer for worrying about his delicate potions.

"My mother is a Travers. She was born in Hampshire and went to Hogwarts. She met my father when he came to visit from Russia. Quite the scandal. They had to be married very quickly before my eldest sister was born. My grandmother doesn't like Russia. She's been trying to get Mum to move back ever since. Spending summers here was never long enough. I think she hopes helping me, the only son, get set up here will encourage my parents to move. All I had to do was mention I was interested in an apprenticeship and she arranged it. She's a formidable woman. I can't imagine anyone saying 'no' to her."

"She loves her family. It's sweet."

Igor leaned against the shelf Hermione was taking inventory of. She was annoyed she had to do the same tedious, pointless task every single day. Once she was done with her NEWTs she would find a better job more worth her time.

"No one has ever called my grandmother 'sweet' for good reason. She can be a nasty old…"

"Igor!"

He smirked.

"Lady. I was going to say she can be a nasty old lady when she doesn't get her own way."

Hermione rolled her eyes again, not believing for a moment that was how the wizard was going to describe his grandmother. A flicker of envy fanned into a flame of jealousy within her chest. Did he not understand how fortunate he was? How privileged? He had his entire life ahead of him where he could do just about anything he wanted. He had influential family members who cared enough about him to open doors that were shut to everyone else. Knowing he would throw all of that away at some point to follow a crazed madman obsessed with power and immortality angered her like little else ever had. How could he be so damned foolish? The desire to destroy the horcrux in her pocket grew even stronger. There were others like him out there: young witches and wizards too stupid to know that Voldemort was going to ruin their lives and even their families.

"Igor, do you know how to cast Fiendfyre?"

It wasn't her intention to just blurt the question out. If she hadn't been so frustrated and so tired from weeks of poor sleep, she would've been able to be a little more subtle. Durmstrang was much more open to teaching its students about the Dark Arts instead of merely teaching them about defense against them. Worried he would be suspicious, she relaxed when he started to laugh again.

"Not a question one gets asked every day, but I can recognize when a change of subject is desired. Yes, I do know about Fiendfyre. The question now becomes why do you want to know about it?"

"It's part of my studies for my NEWTs. I'm struggling to understand it."

"Ahh, I see. I'm impressed. I thought anything that dark would be forbidden in this country's exams. It's a fascinating spell."

From inside the pocket of his robes he pulled out a fresh roll of parchment. Plucking the quill out of Hermione's hand, he began writing down the incantation and a diagram of the proper wand movements. Animated by the task of teaching the difficult spell, he was brilliant. She could see why he would later choose to go into education. He had a natural gift.

"I would show you a practical lesson, but I haven't actually cast it in years and when I did, it was in a highly controlled environment. One simple mistake can be a disaster."

"That's all right. Thank you. I just needed to understand the theory."

Igor made his excuses to leave for his room in the basement. With an unexpected day off, he planned on using the free time to catch up on his sleep. She thanked him again for his help, rolling the parchment up to tuck away in her pocket.

After over a week of studying Igor's elegant script, Hermione felt confident enough that she could probably cast Fiendfyre when the time came. It would have to be far from civilization, she'd decided. If the spell got out of control in a populated area, she was sure she would never be able to forgive herself.

When she decided to cast the horrible spell, assuming she ever had the courage to do so, she couldn't risk it being traced back to her. Especially not if she couldn't control it. With her pockets jingling with nearly the entirety of her personal savings, she headed to Ollivanders on one of her very few days off. Lots of people carried a second wand, a backup. She pushed away the thoughts reminding her that most of them were criminals up to no good.

Only inside Ollivanders shop a second and the wizard appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It was odd seeing him healthy and much younger. The last time she'd seen him was the day he left Shell Cottage after his imprisonment at Malfoy Manor. She tried unsuccessfully to push away those terrible memories.

"Good morning, miss. How can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to say that I've misplaced my wand. I've looked everywhere I can think of."

She tried to keep her voice light as she lied through her teeth. Worried the wandmaker would find it suspicious that she requested a second wand, she decided on her walk to the shop she would tell him a fib. Lots of people lost their wands. It was annoyingly easy to do.

"I don't recognize you, Miss…"

"Granger. Hermione Granger. No, I've never been here before."

"Who made your last wand?"

"Gregorovitch."

Thankful that she knew the name of another wandmaker, Hermione still felt nervous. She didn't want to be there. Maybe it would be best if she figured out some way other than Fiendfyre to destroy the horcruxes.

"I see. Fine wandmaker. May I?"

Ollivander held up the measuring tape he used on his customers. She smiled and held out her arm. The tape was only able to get a couple of measurements before Hermione's wand fell out of her sleeve. Cursing herself for not putting it in her bag before entering the store, she tried to grab it off the counter. She was not fast enough.

Each second that ticked away as Ollivander examined her wand, his eyes grew more narrow and her heart beat faster. By some miracle, after the war ended her wand was recovered from the horde of wands the Snatchers kept as sick trophies. She'd never been more thankful to drop Bellatrix's wand and reclaim her own.

"I remember every single wand I've ever made and who I sold it to. This mark shows I made this wand and it feels like one I've made, but I don't recognize it. Where did you get this, girl?"

Panicked, Hermione ripped her wand out of his hand. She was outside the shop before he could stop her. Uncaring that she was drawing even further suspicion from the shoppers in Diagon Alley staring, she didn't stop running until she was safe inside her flat.