Chapter 11

The forest floor is clean of snow. There is a strange warmth in the air, having nothing to do with the weather or the pressing, devious plant-life within. Rather, it is a fetid warmth, like the eyelids of a feverish, ailing woman. Even the ground is perilously, sickly soft.

Only the glassy eyes of stars above seem frozen.

Hermione does not feel afraid. Not because she has no reason to, but because once you are inside the forest, there's no point fretting. You just have to keep going. Forests everywhere are the same. There are no 'Muggle' forests, in fact. The glowing tip of her wand only makes the dark darker, but there is a kind of comfort in that. She does not feel any hostile presence following her, but the thought of Tom, waiting for her obediently at the edge of the forest, makes her blood run faster.

She walks until she feels a twinge in her bones, a forced tiredness, like someone telling her to make a stop. Hermione knows the forest has a will of its own, so she listens. She passes by a copse of stumpy, rheumatic shrubs and is suddenly arrested by the mirror-like surface of a dark pool. It looks thick with oil rather than water. It does not reflect any star, although there is an opening between the crowns of the dark trees, up above. Hermione looks into the pool warily. There is something silky about the way the surface creases and folds under the breath of wind. She thinks, this is a different kind of magic. And just as this thought arrives, she hears the soft thread of hooves, so soft she might have missed it, had the considerable girth of the centaur not already alerted her to his presence.

Firenze is impressive. He is beautiful and manly and harsh like heavy rocks, yet also elfin and feminine and proudly elegant. He seems elemental, yet also very abstract; a creature made not of lusts but of thoughts. Ethereal flesh. He bows his head to her in greeting.

"I hope the evening finds you well, Miss Granger."

His somewhat affected, otherworldly voice makes her shiver.

"I admit, it could have found me better." A dry remark to conceal her nerves.

Firenze cocks his head delicately to the side. His long blond hair seems to twine around his torso like silk. Hermione knows that his beauty can be deceptive, even used as a weapon when necessary.

"I understand. These are difficult and dark time… I regret to say that I have only come bearing more ill tidings," he murmurs, head still tilted.

Hermione quickly falls back on her manners. "Oh no, far better to have ill tidings than no tidings at all. I was discourteous before, I'm sorry. I am truly glad to make your acquaintance."

Firenze keeps looking at her uncannily. "It is very good to meet you, as well, Miss Granger. You are very polite for someone so angry."

The unexpected remark makes her start. "Angry? What gave you that impression?"

"Anger is usually coupled with fear," he continues, ignoring her question. "But you seem to have mastered yours. You are, for instance, afraid of me right now, but you are doing a fine job of keeping your fear at bay."

"I assure you that I feel perfectly safe–"

"I do not judge you, either way," he adds with soft emphasis. "I believe you have very good reasons to be angry and afraid. Though I try to avoid them myself, such emotions remain a useful tonic in the face of unbearable conditions."

Hermione wonders. Had they become unbearable? She voices her doubt. "I fear we are only at the beginning of what is truly unbearable."

The centaur sketches a melancholy smile. "Indeed, you are right. The thread of fate moving forward has never been quite so obscure."

In the mouth of anyone else this would sound like whimsy, but there is something deeply serious and ominous about Firenze's words. She is almost tempted to ask if he's seen it in the stars, but that would be unpardonably rude. Notwithstanding her scepticism regarding Divination, Firenze is a creature who knows a lot more than she does and he deserves her utmost respect.

"Will you tell me what you know of this thread?"

His hoofs stamp the ground as he takes the length of the pool. "I will tell you what I can. We may speak freely in this corner, for none shall eavesdrop, but we cannot speak for very long..." He stares into the depths of the forest. Hermione wonders what it is he sees.

"I will be plain. You must be aware by now that Albus Dumbledore has made certain plans regarding the coming confrontation."

Hermione gives him a searching look.

The coming confrontation?

She's not sure if she ought to ask about that or if Firenze expects her to know already.

She hesitates. "It certainly looks as if he expected to be arrested."

The centaur nods. "He used the altercation to his advantage."

"He used it as a reason to disappear, didn't he?" Hermione muses, trying to work the pieces together. "Except now he is being pursued by the Ministry as a fugitive. What exactly is he planning?"

Firenze peers up at the stars, as if consulting with them. His eyes turn strangely remote. It is a deeply impersonal yet intimate gesture. When he looks down again, his face is impassive.

"Do you know why the Ministry has been tracking the Lovegoods for so long?"

The change in conversation stymies her. Hermione did not think centaurs followed the petty actions of government cronies, but then again, this is no regular government and all magical peoples share a vested interest in not being tracked by the Ministry.

She shakes her head. "I thought they were a pretext to go after Dumbledore."

"In a way, they are. But they have also made themselves enemies of the current rule, because they have been quietly undermining a new law that is being discussed regarding magical creatures."

Hermione's brow furrows in thought. Despite the Lovegoods' well-known interest in magical creatures, Medea had never mentioned this to her.

"You did not read this in the letters you received from your friends because speaking about it, even in code, is a great risk," Firenze explains, readily guessing her mind.

"I see…" Hermione looks about her shiftily. Should they be discussing it openly, notwithstanding Firenze's assurances of privacy? "Then it must be a very controversial law."

The centaur gazes away, his shoulders unfurling slightly. "It is. Fear, as we've established, often accompanies anger. When humans are afraid and angry, there is no telling what they will do. Sometimes they may give way to nobler impulses, but more often than not, they succumb to lower instincts. I need not specify which path Grindelwald has taken. His fear has blinded him. He is desperate to consolidate his rule. He craves submission and order and he has installed it, so far, through blood discrimination. This time, however, he wants to make sure that he sorts through the ranks and removes any …undesirable creatures."

Hermione's stomach drops. "You mean creatures that would not submit easily, creatures that would pose a problem."

"Precisely."

"How would this removal go about, exactly?"

A clouded look darkens his beautiful face, extinguishing the light from it. "I find it distasteful to utter such words, for they are filthy and barren. Dumbledore has spoken of special "camps" where experiments are being done on all sorts of creatures. Magic and science united in folly."

Hermione feels bile rise in her throat. How can it be that both Muggles and wizards have devised to abuse their power in such similar and heinous ways? Yet, beyond the horror of it, something else quickly dawns on her.

"He will begin with magical creatures…and slowly accustom the population with these methods. Then he will apply them to undesirable witches and wizards."

Firenze nods. "Well surmised, Miss Granger. Most, if not all, creatures in the magical world are seen as lower than people. When the Ministry comes for us, ordinary wizards and witches may prove rather lax in their opposition."

"And if they do oppose it, they will be considered undesirable too."

There is no need for his confirmation here. It is clear as day.

"His ambitions do not end here, however," Firenze continues meaningfully. "Grindelwald does not like being seen as a tyrant and does not believe himself to be one. He is not simply rounding up enemies. His consolidation has a bigger purpose in mind. Can you see what that is?"

Hermione stares down into the dark pond. She can see strange, teasing shapes reflected within. Not stars. Not living things either. She hadn't noticed it before.

"He is …pruning society in order to make it more homogenous. Easier to group and manipulate."

"Good. And what use does a homogenous mass of magical folk have?"

The answer comes easily.

"War. Armies," she says hoarsely. "Usually, Muggle leaders have used war as a pretext for their autocracies." It is impossible not to think of the calamities currently unfolding across the world.

"Precisely. And who do you think Grindelwald wants us all to go to war with?"

She had suspected it before when the Ministry had come down so viciously on Muggleborns. There had been other warning signs. Grindelwald had acquired quite a few followers back in the day, when he'd criticized the Statute of Secrecy.

"He's tired of hiding. It's the Muggle world he's after, isn't it?"

Firenze bows his head.

Hermione shakes hers. "No. That's bound to fail. There have been many wizards and witches throughout the centuries who have tried going against Muggles and been thwarted."

"True. The difference is… the Muggle world is now embroiled in violence and cruelty the likes of which have never been witnessed before. Grindelwald has made a very good argument that non-magical people and their weapons of mass destruction endanger all of us. They must be stopped. The Muggle Problem, he calls it. This is how he will unite us, by pitting us against non-magical people who pose a threat. In his mind, that is all of them."

Hermione's thoughts instantly fly to her parents, hidden away rather ineffectively in a village in Wales. Aging and vulnerable.

"But it's lunacy," she breathes out. "He cannot truly believe he can win such a war or keep it going for very long. Other magical governments would surely oppose him."

Firenze gives her a pitying look. "You would be surprised how deep the folly of Man runs. Some magical governments are already in talks with him. The Muggle Problem appears to be universal. I'm afraid Muggles have chosen a very bad time to go to war with everyone. Fear and anger reign everywhere these days."

Hermione brushes stray locks from her forehead. She must not give in to panic or dreary thoughts. There is still something – something to be done.

"Professor Dumbledore. He has not just been hiding away, has he?"

Firenze nods. "He knows we must act soon. The law will be passed and creatures will be at risk. This is the beginning of the end. He is calling on allies of every kind and gathering forces to fight. If Grindelwald is building an army, so must we."

"Resistance cells," she says quietly, ignoring the hammering in her chest.

"Indeed. We have no choice but to resist."

Hermione feels her eyes burning in their sockets. "Tell me what I can do."

"Dumbledore does not wish to place you in unnecessary danger, Miss Granger. He only hopes you may do some good at Hogwarts by keeping students safe until the time comes to fight."

"Could I not recruit people to his – our side?"

Firenze treads on the ground delicately. "That would be a difficult endeavour, but certainly worth pursuing. Dumbledore himself was attempting to do so before he was arrested. However, you must exercise extreme caution. You cannot afford to get caught. You must harden your heart against disappointment. Often times, your closest friends may choose safety over dissent."

Hermione's thoughts drift inevitably to Septimus and Fleamont. Would they choose safety, only to avoid staring the horrors in the face? She's got to believe they would not.

"When the time is right," Firenze speaks on, "you will receive word from us and you will return to the Forest. We will ensure you safe passage through it to the other side."

"The other side?"

"A forest has many secrets. It is never just a forest," Firenze murmurs cryptically. "It is all forests, in a way. That is, it can take you to all of them."

Hermione blinks. "Like a Portkey?"

But Firenze does not grace her with an answer. He is looking up at the stars again, lost in some remote thought.

"I believe it's time to leave now. We have rested here long enough, but we will speak again, rest assured. Remember, extreme caution must be exercised. We speak freely here and nowhere else."

Hermione nods, wondering just how many things Firenze hasn't yet told her, precisely because no one really speaks freely anywhere.

And then – quite unintended – she opens her mouth.

"If we can still speak freely, I have a rather …unusual question for you."

Firenze stands still, waiting.

She begins haltingly. "Could you – that is, would you be able to tell me what you know about Horcruxes?"

His entire countenance shifts and warps. Not even when he was describing the experimental camps was Firenze quite so repulsed. Disgust is written plainly on his beautiful face.

"Why would you utter that appalling word?"

Hermione does not have time to reflect. The lies come in quick succession.

"It's just that Dumbledore once told me in confidence that Grindelwald had stumbled upon certain dark rituals. He mentioned Hocruxes in passing, but he never got the chance to tell me more."

"He did well to keep silent." The centaur's voice has sharpened like a blade. "The fewer people know the better."

"Is that truly wise? I know you despise such terrible knowledge, but if we are to fight Grindelwald, we must be acquainted with all his monstrous methods. That does not mean we condone the methods, but rather that we are prepared for them. That is why I'd like to know how one makes a Horcrux. There are hardly any creditable sources on the issue. I know that it involves a splitting of the soul through the act of murder, but not much else. Every source mentions an additional ghastly ritual, but not one of them bothers to elaborate. Don't you think it's important to know?"

Firenze shudders for the first time, a tremor running through him like the forest giving a sigh. "What is important – essential, in fact – is to keep one's soul clean and intact."

"All right, but just because one learns about Horcruxes doesn't mean one will attempt to do the barbarous thing."

Firenze's tail flicks impatiently. "You should not speak of it so trivially. Believe me, you do not wish this burden on your conscience. It is madness to learn it and I will certainly not speak of it."

Hermione clenches her jaw. "Then do you know someone who will? I am of the opinion that we must know the enemy if we are to defeat him."

The centaur shakes his head, visibly troubled. "I am afraid I doubt your motives, Miss Granger."

"My motives? Whatever can you mean?"

"I sense in you a different purpose. A thirst. You seem far too acquainted with the Dark Arts, as it is."

The anger to which he had alluded earlier rears its ugly head. Her nostrils flare.

"I hope that's not an accusation. We both agreed these are dark times in which we live. We did not choose them, but we must still survive them, by any means we have available," she bites back, ignoring the small voice in her head telling her this is also the argument Riddle used on her.

"You said I have a right to be angry and afraid," she continues, stubbornly. "I want to help. I want to stand by your side. But I don't agree with your methods. I don't consider ignorance an asset. Fearing the thing only gives it more power. If you cannot tell me what I need to know, then guide me towards someone who will."

Firenze looks torn for a moment. The muscles on his back ripple with almost creaturely violence, but his limbs, both human and animal, settle into a graceful sort of dance, a show of abhorrence and distaste. He heaves another sigh.

"I must reflect on it. I fear you will seek this knowledge to your own perdition. But I will not deny you. Come back to see me again when the moon is a sickle."

"Will you tell me then?"

Firenze's eyes are chips of ice. "Perhaps someone will."

It must be the guilt. It must be the regret of having behaved rudely, of having upset Firenze and made a bad impression on him that renders her a little distracted. Her mind is occupied with chastising itself. She does not immediately sense the danger, isn't prepared for it. She forgot that Firenze had not promised her safe passage out of the forest.

When the half-formed shape attacks from the dark, she barely has time to leap away from its stinging tail. The sharp blade of it nicks her trousers, making her stumble against the leaf-strewn ground. Her heart jumps at the thought of a cut, of bleeding, of poison. She aims her wand straight, but the little beast deftly evades her immobilizing rays. Its shape in the dark is hard to make out, yet even so, she isn't sure she has seen its like before. It must be some hybrid of manticore, judging by its tail, but it has been clearly shrunk down to size. Hermione doesn't have time to wonder at its biology. Just when she thinks she's managed to impair it, the beast opens its insect-like mouth and surprisingly strong flames erupt, singeing her shoes. She rolls away from the volleys of fire, only to have to duck at the wide arc of its tail. Crawling on hands and knees, she tries to steady the aim of her wand, as the poisonous tail's tip flicks menacingly above her hair, when suddenly – suddenly the creature isn't there anymore.

By the light of its sputtering flames, she sees that it has been flung into the air, where it chokes and twists and struggles to escape, writhing most pathetically.

There's only one curse that unifies all creatures in such pain.

Hermione looks down.

There stands Tom Riddle, holding his wand delicately, as if he were an opera conductor, staring up at the beast with a look of perverse satisfaction.

Hermione has never seen the Cruciatus Curse this close and personal. She is repelled and fascinated by the spectacle of suffering, and Tom's obvious delight in it.

She doesn't have the stomach for another Unforgivable, which is why she does not cast the Killing Curse.

Later, she will wonder if her methods were any better. Still shaking with adrenaline, she lifts her wand and mutters an elementary dark spell which promptly eviscerates the poor thing, splitting its carapace in half and crushing its innards. The beast's guts spill on the forest floor, followed by the rest of its broken body. A violent, but quick death.

Hermione stares at its bleeding entrails in disbelief. It had all happened so fast. Her eyes lift to meet Tom's. He looks at her and the small carnage between them and his gaze is a mixture of admiration and envy. Always the wheels turning in his mind, always the thirst for unpalatable things. (Hadn't Firenze accused her of something similar?)

A moment later, he's rushing to her side. His hands are on her arms, patting her down, checking for injuries.

"Are you all right? Did it hurt you?"

"I – I don't think so. It got quite close once or twice, but I think I'm safe."

His hands brush against her throat, framing her face, lifting it up to him for inspection, thumb pressed against her chin.

Hermione feels uncomfortably warm. She places her hands over his and gently removes them. Reluctantly, she grabs onto his shoulder as his other hand comes around her waist. Tom effortlessly pulls her off the ground into his arms. She doesn't like how comforting his solid chest feels. Her legs are a bit unsteady. One of her ankles has twisted. She needs to hold onto him in order to walk.

"We need to go to the Infirmary," he says presently.

"Nonsense. I can fix this by myself. I just need to have a lie down in my room."

"I shall take you there myself."

"No, you won't. In fact, we can't be seen walking back to the castle together," she mutters, struggling to keep upright and put somewhat of a distance between them, though his arm is stubbornly engaged round her waist.

"You do realize it's not safe to walk alone, don't you? That creature was trying to kill you." His voice is low and vicious and full of fury. "And I don't imagine it has a mind of its own. Someone must have compelled it to go after you."

Hermione glances up at him. "What a miserable thing, to have been inflicted with two Unforgivables."

Tom scowls petulantly. "If that is some kind of reproach, I will not apologize for saving you."

Hermione rather hates those two words. Saving you. Does he think she couldn't have managed without him? It's difficult for her to admit that she'd needed his help. It has always been difficult for her to admit such a thing. She has learnt to depend mainly on herself. External help always comes with strings attached. But – it is rather nice, from time to time, to have someone looking out for you. She buries this thought quickly.

"You could have stopped the creature by any other means," she points out, "but you chose the cruellest."

"As if disembowelling the thing is any kinder."

"It may not be, but at least I did not enjoy what I had to do."

"You misunderstand me. I did not relish its suffering for the sake of it. I simply enjoy punishing those who've hurt you," he replies, as if giving her the utmost proof of his innocence.

The casual candour of his remark unsettles her. Hermione remembers the look of sheer dread on Darius Avery's face.

She swallows. "I think you forget your role in this, Mr Riddle. You followed me here, unwarranted, and you disobeyed my clear instructions. It is I who should be punishing you. You were supposed to stay put and wait for me at the edge of the forest."

Had she been less distraught by the evening's events, she might have chosen her words better. His hand on her waist tightens. Something in him snaps. Suddenly, she's not walking anymore. Her back hits the rough bark of an old tree. Riddle rudely pushes her up against it.

"I did as you told me for as long as it was sensible. But if I'd stayed put, you'd be dead. Luckily for you, I wasn't far away."

His voice is laced with pride and fury. He yearns for – he deserves her praise. It's only right after coming to her rescue.

Beyond it all, he's still such a boy, impatient for his prize.

Hermione tilts her head. "And what exactly do you expect me to give you as reward for your supposed good deed?"

His eyes narrow, sensing mockery, yet also angling for an advantage. "Who did you meet in the Forest? Start there."

"A centaur," she replies, seeing no point in hiding it.

He frowns. "Why? Does this have to do with Dumbledore?"

Hermione huffs. "Perhaps you'd care to lower your voice. Whoever sent that creature after me probably has ears nearby." Though, she sorely hopes that isn't true.

"What did you discuss with the centaur?"

"You know very well I won't tell you that."

Tom clenches his jaw, leaning forward. "Will you make me make you, Madam Granger?"

Hermione swallows again, but she forces a smile, showing herself unimpressed. "As if you could."

The challenge is not taken lightly. Tom is a skilled Legilimens, even if not yet proficient. But the advantage she has over him is innate and has little to do with magic. Hermione feels herself drawn to it instinctively - this power that only she seems to wield.

Slowly, she knows what she wants to do.

She lifts her hand and cups the side of his jaw, softly at first, then forcefully, pulling him forward.

"I won't tell you anything, at least not now, but…"

She drags his head to the hollow of her shoulder and whispers directly in his ear. "I will need your help. There is a conflict brewing on the horizon. You've said it yourself; we live in times of war. We will need to fight. I'd like you to be on my side, Tom."

Her breath tickles the shell of his ear and he shivers, staggering a little, having to grip the bark of the tree above her head.

She cups the back of his head like a doting mother. She says the words he needs to hear. "Will you do that? Will you help me fight against unworthy people who misplace their power? Who cowardly send innocent beasts to do their dirty work?"

She knows she's struck a chord.

I simply enjoy punishing those who've hurt you.

"You know I will," he rasps against her throat, lips grazing skin reverently. "I'm going to make them regret wronging you …and by extension me."

Hermione feels a guilty thrill run down her spine.

"Good." She strokes the back of his head. "Very good."

His mouth worries over her pulse, teeth and tongue bearing down hungrily and kissing the side of her throat like a famished wolf.

Hermione tugs his head up none too softly.

Riddle's eyes are almost black. A dark pool slick with oil rather than water.

They share a breath.

"Does this mean you will teach me all you know? You'll take me under your wing?"

She only hesitates a moment.

"Yes."

She knows she's not lying, not really. It takes monsters to fight monsters. Tom Riddle is an effective tool, a brilliant and powerful young wizard, a popular student, a born leader. She can use that. Of course she can. If she must recruit, he will be her first acolyte. It is almost fate, as Firenze might say.

Besides, a teacher is meant to inspire. Mold. Manipulate.

A teacher probably shouldn't have kissed her student. A teacher shouldn't have let said student do the things he's done to her. A teacher should definitely not want to let him do it again. As a librarian and educator, she should be ashamed of herself.

She tells herself that some things need to be done for the sake of a larger mission, a cause. The ends justify the means.

But she knows that Firenze was not entirely wrong about her.

She knows she could get addicted to that deep, possessive darkness in Riddle's eyes.

A/N: thank you for your reviews! hope you enjoyed!