After a while, the days become manageable- in the way everything eventually becomes manageable. They hunt, they walk, they eat, they sleep. Days blur from morning into evening, and from evening into night. Tom's presence permeates it all. From the way he arranges their provisions, to the way he brushes his slender blade over the grindstone. Even the ghost of his touch continues to linger on Hermione's skin, long after he lets go.

They travel mostly by foot because any other type of transportation might blow their cover. To reach Diagon Alley, a quickly enchanted portkey brings them to a small café on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, then they walk from there. Traversing the rocky roads on foot slows them down, but it's safer.

Two days later, when they finally arrive in Diagon Alley, the cobblestone marketplace is eerily silent. So silent, that for some reason, Hermione halfway expects to stumble across a corpse. Like Hogsmeade, some shops are closed, their windows barricaded. Florean Fortescue's once glittering, periwinkle shop sign looks dull and greyish. Madam Malkin's and Ollivander's are both open, but some windows are smashed in. The few people they pass crowd close to the walls, heads down, as they hurry along their way.

She has no time to further explore before Tom pulls her around the next corner: Knockturn Alley.

She remembers Knockturn Alley from her brief visit before the war. Dark and twisting, filled with suspicious people, and the constant smell of moss sitting as thick as algae in your nose. Now, it still looks the same but the atmosphere seems… lighter. At first, she wonders if Knockturn Alley might be trying to mimic Diagon Alley. Then she remembers that Diagon Alley and the magical world, in general, have become much more grim and dangerous in the last couple of months. So much so, that Knockturn Alley looks almost safe in comparison.

Of course, the shops here still feature one or two smashed windows, and gnarled, wooden shops signs that hang, creaking in their rusty brackets. One of the book shops has a stall outside, displaying their wares in small piles. It could be quaint, if not for the thick layer of dust on their covers. Instead, the tomes look grey and ashen, unwanted and forgotten. Her eyes fly over the titles - Moste Potente Potions, Magic Moste Evile, Unforgivable Curses and their legal Implications - as she follows Tom down the road.

She knows where they're heading before Tom stops at the entrance, though she's surprised by what she sees. A rotting, olive-coloured facade, painted a dark, rich emerald. Borgin and Burkes, established in 1863, is no longer sketched out in peeling, yellowed paint, but shimmering gold calligraphy, enchanted to look three-dimensional. A soft carpet connects the warm-looking interior with the cobblestoned, wet street. The store is thriving, almost inviting. Almost.

"Seems not everyone suffers under Voldemort's reign," Hermione whispers, just low enough that only Tom can hear. He snorts, nods sharply, and opens the door. The soft jingle of a bell announces their entrance.

The interior of Borgin and Burkes has also been updated. Large chandeliers hang from the ceiling, bathing the shop in a soft, warm hue. Potion ingredients are organized in cabinets that hang over large, fully stocked shelves. Pre-made potions are arranged neatly across the back wall, and different coloured masks hang tidily over a large fireplace. Throughout the room, gleaming glass cages hold rare magical artefacts that Hermione would die to get her hands on.

"Hello, can I help you?"A man greets them from the other side of a large, wooden counter. He's wearing an emerald suede waistcoat with a white shirt rolled up to the elbows. His face is round and soft around the eyes. Hermione guesses he's in his late thirties.

Tom walks up to talk to him while Hermione continues looking around. There's a medium-sized photograph hanging behind the man, showing both Borgin and Burkes in their younger years. The resemblance between the man to Borgin is striking. Probably his son or grandson, she thinks.

When Tom returns to her side, another customer takes his place at the counter, capturing the shopkeeper's attention. Taking advantage of the distraction, Tom directs her into another section of the store. As he scours the shelves for the next diary page, Hermione keeps an eye on the owner. She watches as he talks and smiles, trying to impose a large, Kraken-shaped lamp on the poor customer, before settling her amused gaze on Tom.

"What?" Tom says, flipping through some books.

"It's hard to imagine you in retail."

"Wasn't really what I had in mind for my future career either."

It surprised her when she first heard, even if only a little. No one, herself included, understood why Voldemort worked here, of all places.

"What did you want to do?" She asks as they move into the next section. At the other end of the wall stands the Vanishing Cabinet, probably still functional. Hermione quickly focuses on Tom before the memory of burned flesh can reach her.

"I don't know. I was still figuring it out." Tom's fingers slip over trinkets, searching for the diary page, pocketing useful gimmicks faster than her eye can track.

"How about politics?"

"No," his answer is sharp and fast. Too fast. "Politics is for people who can't afford the truth."

"I could see you in medicine," she says thoughtfully. "Or maybe in law. You'd make a good attorney."

"No thanks..." For a second, Tom looks as if he wants to add something, but his fingers stop moving over one of the books. It looks well-worn, but the moment Tom touches it, the binding recovers itself. He opens the book and flips through pages, stopping when he finds a blank one. When he rips it out it makes no sound, only shimmering lightly before transforming in his palm. A moment passes before Hermione sees the familiar slip of parchment from the diary caught between his slender fingers. It vanishes into one of his pockets.

They leave the shop shortly after, Borgin paying them no mind; he's too busy selling what looks to be a cursed opal necklace to his next customer. Outside, rain has started to fall.

"Teaching," Tom says before he pushes the hood of his sweater up, almost completely hiding his face. "I think I'd have enjoyed teaching."

The image of a Tom Riddle, old, wise, and healthy enough to sit smiling at the High Table - maybe even as Slytherin's Head of House - flashes through her mind like a lightning bolt. The vision causes Hermione to stumble on the wet cobblestones.

Tom makes no comment. Instead, they both continue in silence, as the rain starts seeping into their clothes.