Perhaps I might have resisted a great temptation, but the little ones would have pulled me down.
― Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth
She didn't start shaking until she was back in her room. The Common Room was mercifully deserted when she arrived back at the tower and she practically flew up the stairs before collapsing, shaking and in tears, onto her bed. She had fallen asleep in front of Tom Riddle in a deserted part of the school at close to midnight.
She had never, never in her life felt more stupid or more vulnerable and the worst part was that she had absolutely no idea if he had done anything. He could have. She had been entirely at his mercy. He could have read every detail of her mind - but no, Dumbledore had said it was locked from the spell - that much was safe.
But still, she realised, far more terrifying in its significance was that it meant that at some level she had felt comfortable enough to sleep. He was a vile murderer, he had killed his own father and would one day wish to kill her and yet she had slept next to him. Lulled perhaps by the evening they had spent together - and that was quite another thing in itself.
She could just imagine Harry's face if she ever got a chance to tell him (not that she would) - Oh yes, I know he's a murderous psychopath Harry, but see thing is he's actually a really great study partner and I really enjoy talking to him. Fuck. And it's really rare to meet a boy that good looking who also reads. And his voice. I just forgot who he was for a couple of hours. I forgot.
Hermione did not approve of profanity in general, but there was a time and a place.
How could she have let that happen? Filled with self-reproach for her idiocy she lay awake for hours as the adrenaline slowly drained from her body. When she did sleep, the dreams of home and of monsters with her face were the worst she had had for weeks.
.
.
The incident had thrown her sufficiently that she spent the next few days going through the motions, withdrawn and preoccupied. There was no sensible course of action that presented itself: on the one hand she knew that Tom Riddle was dangerous beyond anything she could have imagined without direct experience.
However, on the other hand the boy in the library was not yet Lord Voldemort, and surely it was more suspicious to avoid him completely when he seemed to have taken an interest in her.
And that was the nub of it really because deep down Hermione could recognise that she was incredibly flattered at his interest in her. She had paid careful attention to him over her month at Hogwarts and he largely kept himself to himself. He was polite and charming when addressed, and a model student in class but for the most part he worked alone, sat alone, studied alone.
But for whatever reason, probably curiosity, possibly because she was challenging him in class, he had taken an unusual interest in her. She had never seen him working with anyone before and, if she had read him correctly, he had been thrown by it too. Something about her intrigued him and god help her it was heady.
Still, she had been incredibly stupid to let her guard down enough to fall asleep. It was one thing to behave as though she knew nothing of his history, and therefore be as polite as she would to a normal boy but it was quite another entirely to let herself develop any level of trust.
She knew, theoretically and from her experience with the locket, how utterly convincing and manipulative he could be. She knew that, and yet she had not acted with that knowledge.
.
.
It was a Friday morning and she was in Transfiguration, exhausted after another terrible night's sleep. Despite that, she had enjoyed the class - even when she had covered the material it was a real pleasure to be taught by Dumbledore, who had a unique presence in the classroom that surpassed anyone that had previously taught her. Excepting, perhaps, and in a very different way, Professor Snape.
"There were a few good points in this essay, Hawkins, but I recommend a more thorough approach to research next time..." Professor Dumbledore said dropping the rather thin roll of parchment onto the desk of the boy sitting in front of Riddle.
She was intensely aware of him as she always was, a vibrating sort of wonder at what he would do and how he would react, a tiny part of her brain switched to danger - watch out. Fight or flight.
"Well done, Tom. Quite your best piece of work. I'm not sure I entirely agree with the argument but it was flawlessly constructed. Ten points to Slytherin." She watched in surprise as Dumbledore smiled at Riddle and saw as his face passed from disbelief to a restrained and genuine pleasure she had never seen before.
His eyes had brightened and he looked like he was going to actually smile for the first time since she had begun at Hogwarts. The expression was gone as soon as it had arrived, concealed behind one of his fake smiles but for a moment he had dropped his guard.
He glanced over to her and then she suddenly realised, a thought that couldn't be unthought, that on one level Tom Riddle was still just an orphaned boy who had never known love, affection, or kindness and that he yearned for it from Professor Dumbledore more than anyone else - and that Dumbledore's behaviour to him as a child, as reported by Harry was completely and utterly wrong. That any child, no matter how unsettling, deserves empathy before suspicion. He had even been left to go to Diagon Alley alone. An orphan boy.
For years they had assumed he had been born evil because, in contrast to Harry - also mistreated and abused - he had grown up to be a terrible man.
But Harry's first year had been filled with love and Tom had never even been held to his mother's breast. Harry had been with relatives, however ghastly, and Tom had been abandoned to the unimaginable loneliness and cruelty of a Muggle Orphanage in post-war London. Of course he had never understood how to love - he had probably never once in his entire life been shown a genuine kindness. He had never been taught to love.
She knew that science and psychology in the Muggle world in her time were light years ahead of the Wizarding World, and in comparison to the Muggles in the 1920s, and so perhaps it was natural that no one had thought that not to show a tiny baby love and affection, a baby whose very experience in the womb with a starving and ill mother had probably been deeply traumatic would stunt his ability for empathy and affection.
She hardly heard Dumbledore as he awarded her points (less than Tom but still the only two to get any, she noted that at least), trying to fight that thing that rose up within her when she saw such wrongdoing. The tidal wave of compassion and social justice that had led her to adopt a hideous cat because no one else wanted it, to love Ron instead of Harry or Viktor or anyone else, to fight for justice on behalf of the elves at the cost of her social status.
Fuck, indeed.
And after the lesson, as she walked to Arithmancy Tom caught up with her, and although he said nothing and she remained silent she had felt something change inside her because now, despite the evil acts he had already committed, despite all her knowledge of what he would become, despite the fact that he was already two Horcruxes on his way to insanity, she pitied him for the first time since she had heard his name - so long ago when she was that silly, precocious, insecure eleven year old girl desperate to escape her lonely Muggle existence for the Magical world promised to her in her new books.
And how much more magical, how much more important this world must have been for Tom Riddle. A way to escape a life that had probably contained as little joy as it had love.
And Professor Dumbledore had treated him with suspicion and alienation and even left him to go to buy his things alone. How different everything might have been if he had shown the boy the same affection and well, fatherly mentoring as he had Harry. She had seen it in his face, just for a second. No wonder Tom Riddle hated Albus Dumbledore. She knew how deeply rejection wormed itself into your heart, how you could carry it with you forever, a poison far more powerful and damaging than hatred.
.
.
"I just don't think that's fair, Riddle. He's going to get a T on this project if you don't make him stay and help." She was actually cross, it was the second lesson Riddle had let Algie Longbottom leave without helping. They were sitting in the dungeons, later that week, the first time they had spoken since Transfiguration. It was Friday morning and she was tired and confused and fed up of playing a part. It was exhausting. She couldn't imagine how Snape had managed for so long.
"Well it's his own fault for skiving off to play with broomsticks. Besides, what on earth do we need him for? This is the easiest project I've ever seen. Either one of us could do it in our sleep. All we have to do now is sit and read next to our cauldron for two hours while we research what we might want to do next term. I think Slughorn's getting lazy. He ought to be teaching us."
"Well Algie isn't researching is he? You're Head Boy, you should try and be a better influence on him! And it's Professor Slughorn."
"Alright, alright - fine. I'll change the record so he doesn't get a T. Will that make you quiet?"
"So now you're going to cheat for him?"
"Good god, you are insufferable. It isn't your problem, and he clearly doesn't care so why do you?"
Why did she care? She didn't even know any more.
"Because I'm not an emotionless spectre who is happy to throw everyone to the wolves? Because I can recognise that people don't always know what's best for them?" Her voice was getting shrill and she cringed internally. God forbid she just shut up and let people live their lives. "I'm going to the Library, this is ridiculous."
She couldn't believe she was storming off in a huff as though he were Ron or Harry but she was so cross! It was just irresponsible and a misuse of his influence as Head Boy to let someone have so much slack they did themselves a disservice.
He didn't join her in the corner of the Library they had both marked as their own that evening, but sat with his Housemates.
.
.
Strangely enough, though, it appeared that he had listened to her, and the following day as she went into the storeroom just after breakfast to check on the potion, she was surprised to see Longbottom sitting there with a pile of Potions books and the Head Boy lounging with a book on the other side of the room in that ridiculous chair he had conjured. She paused in the door, as they hadn't noticed her.
"Tom what about this one?"
"Longbottom I am not here to do your homework for you. I have fulfilled my duties by making you take some interest, the rest is up to you. It wouldn't be fair if I helped you."
"Of course, I'm sorry."
That sneaky toad, Hermione thought in surprise. He had found a way to pacify her, for whatever twisted purpose, and he was using it to his absolute advantage - diligent but oh so likeable Tom the consummate Head Boy. Goddamn it.
"Good morning boys, I wasn't expecting to find you here. It isn't on the schedule."
Tom frowned at her and said nothing, returning to his book. She stood there, at something of a loss.
"Well, I suppose I'll leave you to it. It's such a nice day, shame to waste any of it indoors," she said brightly. "See you later. Enjoy Hogsmeade!"
Contrary to popular opinion (well, Ron's opinion) Hermione didn't actually mind flying. She wasn't a natural and would never be first pick for anyone's Quidditch team but she was passable enough. The first time she had flown without fear had been trying to catch the key on the way to the Philosopher's Stone and after that it had seemed silly to be too scared. Particularly after flying hippogriffs, dragons, and thestrals. Not to mention, and this memory still gave her a lurch of fear and pride, now that she knew if you fell from a great height you just apparated.
Although she did say so herself, that particular instance had shown great presence of mind and was one of the moments in the war she was most proud of.
Still, going for a quiet fly by herself was not something Hermione had ever really felt inclined to do. Perhaps because flying had always been Harry and Ron's thing, and later Ginny's as well. Not a ritual they had ever thought to invite her to join. She was surprised then that, as she walked away from the dungeon she found herself heading towards the broomsheds and not the Library. Her newfound interest in the outdoors was very uncharacteristic, but the gathering clouds on the horizon were threatening to break the spell of sunshine that had lasted that week and she didn't want to waste what might well be the last dry morning for weeks.
Of course, she could be researching how to get home or how to get here in the first place but she found that all she really wanted to do was escape for an hour or two before playing her role as a newcomer to Hogsmeade (a village she probably knew better than anyone here). It would be a tiresome afternoon - the Ravenclaw girls had promised to show her around the village and she could hardly have refused as she wasn't supposed to have ever visited it before.
Sometimes all the lies just became too much.
She flew far outside the bounds of Hogwarts, sure enough in her Disillusionment Charm to carry on out over the mountains. She wasn't sure exactly why but the thought of getting into trouble held little fear for her. What did it really matter if she got detention? What could they possibly do to her that she could ever care about now?
There was something so bleak and majestic about the Northern Highlands, the heather on the moutains had faded from purple to brown and green, and the damp mists clung stubbornly to the mountain tops above as she soared over the sunlit streams and forests. Finally, she flew as far as a beautiful waterfall, pouring down into a small loch, about two hours from the castle and landed clumsily.
The place was utterly deserted but for a small herd of deer grazing in the distance and the chattering of birds in the silvery birch trees, leaves glowing burnished gold, setting off the damp russet of the bracken below. It was a truly beautiful scene and she sat on a rock staring into the crashing falls and allowing the beauty of the landscape to bring her some measure of peace.
However, beautiful as the scene was she couldn't stay: it was a Hogsmeade weekend and she had been out of the castle for nearly three hours. The Ravenclaw girls would be expecting her to meet them in the Tower and she couldn't linger. She Apparated to the cave outside Hogsmeade where Sirius had lived and flew quickly back to the castle.
She was surprised at how much she had enjoyed her fly, but began to wonder exactly how much trouble she was going to be in. She felt a bit sick. She was practiced enough at breaking rules and being both rewarded for that and getting into unimaginable amounts of trouble for it (fighting Voldemort's inner circle for example) but usually she had had a good reason. This had just been selfish and though she hadn't cared on her way - confused by Tom's actions as much as anything else - she cared now.
She was very good at breaking rules but she didn't have to like doing it.
And sure enough, Professor Dumbledore was waiting by the broomshed when she returned. She got off the broom, stumbling again - she really wasn't an expert flier and brooms had considerably improved by the time she had learnt - and stood awaiting her punishment.
"Hermione -" he began but she interrupted.
"I'm so sorry Albus, I don't know what came over me."
"Where have you been, child?"
"I just kept on flying and then came back. I just... just wanted to get away."
He softened visibly. "I suspect I will have to give you detention but we'll leave it at that. Please don't leave the grounds again without informing me."
"Thank you. I won't. I'm very sorry. Can I still go to Hogsmeade?"
"I don't see why not. Try not to get into trouble. I will see you this evening for your lesson, and will speak to the Headmaster about your punishment. Now, I expect your friends will be waiting for you. Off you go."
She thanked him again and rushed back to Ravenclaw Tower, just in time to fix her windblown hair and change before meeting the Ravenclaw girls.
.
.
Two hours later she was safely ensconced in Tomes and Scrolls, after feigning interest rather admirably in a tour of the village. The girls had left her there, with strict instructions to meet them in the pub in an hour. She didn't really need any new books: for once in her life she found herself too far ahead of the syllabus even for her liking - fifty four years too far ahead to be precise - to be particularly interested in any new publications, and Dumbledore had allowed her the use of his own library for research into their (currently unsuccessful) project involving her time travel, and for his lessons.
Therefore, she gravitated towards the small section of Muggle literature at the very back of the shop. Ironically it was next to the slightly larger section on the Dark Arts - very mild books only, of course. She had never really spent much time reading the literature of her parents' people, her people, from the moment she had received her Hogwarts letter. She had read fiction voraciously as a child but only because she had read everything with an insatiable appetite. From the age of eleven onwards her focus had been entirely Magic.
Entirely too Magical, she thought now as she stared at the clusters of classic titles that any well read Muggle girl of twenty would have read. Perhaps it was time to fill up the bookshelves in her bedroom - and this way, at least she would have something to fill her sleepless nights other than work and missing home and trying to work out when Tom Riddle was going to find out her secrets and the inevitable torture and murder that would follow such an event.
She bought one of nearly everything, from Austen and Chaucer and Malory to Tolkien and Woolf and Joyce. Poetry and prose from Middle English to the most modern options they had. The section was small due to lack of interest but relatively comprehensive nonetheless. She had picked up Paradise Lost (for some odd reason one of the few Muggle books on the Ravenclaw Common Room's shelves) on a whim the week before,and reading it had reminded her of something lost inside her - the possibility of escape to another world that had seemed unnecessary and irrelevant when a real world more fantastic that the books had been opened to her.
As the magical world became more normal, and she had been less obsessed with learning everything about it, her life and the lives of her friends had been in increasing danger and then her pursuit of knowledge had become a key part of the battle to survive. She had had little time or interest in fiction.
And so Hermione could hardly remember the last time she had read a novel for pleasure. Wizards did have fiction but it wasn't of the same literary calibre (usually ridiculous romances or stupid and unrealistic epics). In fact all the arts in the Wizarding World, music, visual, literary, were a poor imitation of their Muggle counterparts. Magic, it appeared, stunted creativity.
"All of them, Miss? That must be nearly a hundred books you've got there." the mad behind the counter blinked over his glasses, stunned.
"Yes," she answered, firmly. "I want one of each. Don't worry, my bag is bigger than it looks."
She paid in cash, leaving him a bit shell shocked. It was probably the biggest sale the bookshop had had for some time, especially as Muggle literature was marked up beyond its real world value. Hermione was extremely grateful for her magically enhanced satchel as she walked to meet her housemates in the Three Broomsticks for an afternoon drink, filled with that happiest of glows that only comes from spending a lot of money on something you truly love.
It was extraordinary to realise, though, how many books she had read that hadn't even been written yet. Extraordinary. She was mediating on this topic when the most potent source of confusion in her life appeared across the street. He also appeared to be heading for the Three Broomsticks, but he hadn't been standing there a moment before which meant that he had come out of the rather dank and empty looking alley behind him. How interesting. She rather suspected he had been somewhere entirely other than Hogsmeade, but short of asking him she wasn't going to find out.
Not to mention that she was entirely sure she didn't want to know. Knowing what he was up to created an ethical dilemma: to tell, and risk the very very slight possibility that every theorist on time travel was wrong and that she could change the future as she had known it, or to not tell and risk allowing harm to others by her silence.
She was doing the latter enough as it was already.
"Anything interesting down there?" she asked, injecting a teasing note into her voice that came more easily that it ought to have - she couldn't avoid him and with the weather coming in the street was almost deserted.
"Nothing I would recommend. I was lost in thought and took a wrong turn. How are you enjoying your first Hogsmeade weekend?" It was incredible how convincing his inquiry sounded, even to her.
"It's lovely. Very quaint. I've been in the bookshop."
"Of course," he smiled and it was that oddly genuine smile that actually reached his eyes, the one that had taken her by such surprise the day before. "Are you going to the Three Broomsticks? It's about to thunder so I suspect the entire school will be in there."
"I suppose they will. Is there nowhere else? I don't fancy anywhere too crowded, but I promised I'd meet Ancha and the others there five minutes ago." She wrinkled her nose and looked up at the sky, wishing she could just go back to her room. Her stomach rumbled quietly and she realised that she was absolutely starving; she had missed lunch. Perhaps the pub wasn't such a dreadful idea after all.
At that moment, by sheer luck, Ancha and Claire came out of the Three Broomsticks and spotted her. Hermione felt relieved at the interruption. Chatting so easily with him still felt like a betrayal and a test.
"Oh there you are Hermione! We were just going to come and get you, thought you must have got lost. It's completely packed in there but we managed to persuade them to let us have the upstairs room so everyone's there, but I see now why you're late. Hello, Tom," Ancha added, a bit shyly. "You're welcome to join us if you'd like."
He looked a bit taken aback. Hermione didn't quite know what to say - if she wasn't entirely mistaken there had been a questioning hint there and if Tom came with them he would only be fuelling a rumour she did not want to start.
"That is very kind of you Ancha," he said with a very false smile that nonetheless turned the pretty Ravenclaw's cheeks pink, "but I've actually got to meet the Slytherins in the Hogs Head. Avery thought it would be quieter, although it is a bit grim. I'd better go." The rain had started, just a few warning drops but from the colour of the sky any idiot could see that it was about to turn into a downpour. He paused as though he was going to say something else but finally finished with, "See you later, Dearborn."
She wasn't sure if it was a salutation or a threat, or why she felt disappointed at his absence. Surely she hadn't actually wanted him to come?
However, getting the upstairs room in the pub proved to have been an inspired idea and the whole of the Ravenclaw Seventh Year seemed to be gathered there, nearly twenty of them, sheltering from the torrential rain that had really hit its stride between her entry to the pub and getting upstairs.
"Hermione! There you are, you were gone ages. Come and get a drink," Sophia said, getting up from her seat next to Marcus who also rose to greet her.
"Sorry, I was in the bookshop... I'll get some drinks, don't get up. What are you having?"
"A Newtgin & Tonic, thanks Hermione."
"No, that's all right. I'll come and help carry them." Marcus, with his warm brown eyes and slightly freckled nose was a world away from the boy in the street and different again from the redhead she had left in the future and she wondered whether she would ever forget enough about Ron to let him or anyone else close to her. He was sweet and clever and attractive and yet... She could never truly confide in someone, so surely it would be impossible. Perhaps she was destined to be alone with her books forever. A comforting thought.
When they had sat back down, Hermione happier with her bowl of pumpkin soup than she thought she had ever been with food. It soon warmed her stomach and went some way towards throwing off the sense of emptiness she had been feeling.
"Where were you at lunch?" Marcus asked.
"Oh I went for a fly and lost track of time," she answered. She didn't want to confess to the potential detention if she could possibly help it, it was a bit embarrassing, but this was Hogwarts and they would know soon enough. "I actually left the grounds so I got in a bit of trouble for it."
"I didn't know you liked flying. Perhaps you would like to go together one day?" he asked, pretending to be casual before quickly adding, "What kind of trouble?"
"Detention. I don't normally like flying actually but I was just feeling a bit homesick this morning."
He gave her a sympathetic look, but mercifully dropped the subject as someone called for his attention. Other Seventh Years were joining them now and the room was filling up - but she couldn't see any Slytherin students among the crowd. She finished her soup, happy for the chance to just eat and enjoy it.
"Why do Slytherin keep to themselves so much?" she asked innocently when he turned back towards her.
"It's just how they are I suppose. They can be a bit nasty so it's not really a great loss. I think Riddle keeps them under control though. They're mainly very keen on blood purity."
"Speaking of Riddle, Hermione, what were you two talking about outside?" Claire interrupted.
"Oh we were talking about the bookshop, nothing exciting," Hermione replied, turning to face her.
"You're lucky, Hermione. Thalia Newbold said she saw you working with him in the library the other day. Tom's so quiet you know and he never works with anyone, which is a shame because he's so clever." Sophia this time, pushing her dark blonde hair back casually, but she was frowning as though she didn't exactly mean what she was saying.
"But so handsome and clever and mysterious... Although he is a bit scary really," Ancha added.
"Scary?" Hermione asked, interested.
"Intimidatingly perfect, is what she means," Sophia explained laughing and Ancha scowled at her. Hermione still thought Sophia was likely to stab someone in the back to beat them in class, but she had mellowed a bit. Her sharp grey eyes assessed Hermione. "He isn't usually very chatty. He seems to like you, though."
Hermione didn't think liking her was exactly the way to describe it. She still wasn't sure why he was showing her interest but she had a feeling it was because she was close to Dumbledore. How would he react if he knew the truth? That she was the Muggleborn girl who would help defeat him in fifty years time?
That she was Muggleborn at all...
"Oh that was just because I sat in his favourite part of the Library. Oughtn't we be getting back?"
"We've got half an hour or so. Is there anywhere else you wanted to go?" Ancha asked.
"I'd quite like to get some chocolate..." she didn't really, but she did want to end this conversation.
"Oh me too! Let's go to Honeydukes, Hermione," Claire said, smiling. She was blonde and blue eyed, a very pretty Half-Blood. She seemed sweet enough, if a bit dull next to Sophia Selwyn.
"Do you mind if I come too?" Marcus asked and Hermione sighed internally. It looked like she was going to have to face up to the possibility of romance in the past sooner rather than later. Ron... Ron was very far away but Hermione wondered if she wasn't technically still in a relationship with him? She loved him and she wasn't sure if she was ready to accept that she might not see him soon. It had only been two months.
But his face was already beginning to fade in her waking thoughts of him. And she didn't want to be alone forever. It was an impossible situation. She would hurt this boy, she could tell already. She would never be able to share enough of herself with him, her sad inner self, her secrets, her nightmares, her grief.
He would never know that she had fought in a war and won, but that winning had come at a terrible cost. But being so alone was awful too and unbidden Riddle's dark eyes flashed into her mind. She felt sick.
"Of course not. Anyone else? It's ghastly out there, so we'll have to brave the weather," Claire said and a few other people rose.
Or cast a simple charm, Hermione thought, but didn't say anything. There was no need to be unkind, and charm or not the wind looked fierce. Perhaps it would distract her a bit. She had never loved the Scottish storms but as they stepped out she could feel the wind whipping up a thrill in her blood and she wondered how much she was changing, and where the swotty bookworm had gone, because what she really wanted wasn't a sweet boy like Marcus to keep her company or to bury herself in a novel or to go for a fly.
What she really wanted was a fight.
.
.
Her lesson with Professor Dumbledore after dinner was the most interesting she had had thus far. He had been teaching her more sophisticated casting techniques, practicing wandless magic, and discussing magical theory.
"Hermione, forgive me for addressing such a personal matter but it seems to me that you still have not conquered your wand. I have written to Ollivander on the subject and we believe that you will require a feat of extraordinary magic to do so. He also mentioned that it was possible that the way in which you conquer your wand will affect your relationship with it forever."
"It is working perfect well, although it is a little less powerful than my old one," she protested. "I thought it was just because I was you know, a bit sad. Preoccupied." Even as she said it, she knew he was right.
She was treating her new wand as though it were a stranger's. Dragon heartstring and walnut, surprisingly flexible. Eleven and three quarter inches.
Those wise blue eyes looked at her as though they were reading into her soul.
"Hermione why are you afraid to bond with this new wand? It is perhaps a symbol of the life you have given up but are not ready to let go? Or is it that you have read enough of wand lore to fear this wand?"
She nodded, suddenly close to tears. When she bonded with this... it would mean that she was never going back, that this was real and not a dream. That she had moved on. That... that and it had the same components as Bellatrix's wand. If she bonded with it, what did that say?
Would she be one step closer to that dark woman full of hate that had taken to staring back at her from her dreams? It was a combination she knew had been in the hands of many evil wrongdoers, many brilliant but terrible wizards. How could she learn to love such a wand?
"I trust you, child. You will subjugate your wand and you will not allow it to control you. Mr Ollivander did mention that this particular wand had an interesting history behind its making. He did not share this with me, and indeed I do believe he thinks that of almost all his wands, but if you would like to learn a little more I am sure he would be pleased to receive a letter.
It might put your mind at rest. Now, onto the matter at hand! Hermione today I am going to begin to teach you a spell that few others throughout history have managed to fulfil. You, like myself, have a natural propensity for the element of fire I believe?"
She wondered how he knew that. "Well yes I suppose so. In my first year I created my own type of fire..."
"Show me."
Hermione waved her wand at the glass of water on his desk and silently set the bluebell flames dancing on top of it. "They're waterproof and will only heat upwards so they're really useful for Potions. I used to use them to keep my hands warm at break." She smiled reminiscently.
"That is extremely impressive magic for a First Year, Hermione."
"Thank you." She glowed. No one had ever commented on the flames, except Ron, and it was nice that they had finally been noted. She had been so proud of them.
"Today we are going to begin an attempt to create Gubraithian Fire. However, the presence of such an item in Hogwarts would only lead to odd questions so I think we will return to Devon. I don't think we will be successful in such a short time, of course, but... I foresee a certain amount of damage caused in our practice and it is probably better not to burn down the castle. I have sought permission from the Headmaster for your absence this time." He twinkled at her. "In addition, if you would like and have completed your homework, you may stay there overnight and return tomorrow evening."
"I would love that - I - wait, Gubraithian Fire? That's incredibly difficult, only about five people in recorded history have been able to create it!" She would never be able to do so although with such a teacher she supposed she stood more of a chance. Who knew what miracles Albus Dumbledore could work? And she had still never found a spell she couldn't do.
"And in time, I trust, you will be one of them." He waved a hand at the fireplace, which burst into flames. "Run and get your things, child. We should be off soon. I will call Jingo to help you."
She appreciated the drama of the moment, and hurried off to the tower to collect her sleepwear and books.
.
.
It was a lovely relief to be back in Wisteria House, a true sanctuary from the world, but she was given little chance of enjoying the peace as they left the house immediately and walked some way out into the large garden. She wondered who maintained it whilst he was at Hogwarts, but had little opportunity to consider the matter as he stopped by the small lake.
"I confess I am a little concerned about the steps we will take to create this. It is something very rarely taught for the methods are a closely guarded secret. To do it alone would take you, as it took me, some years to discover. However, I will guide you. First, however, you must learn absolute control over the element of fire. I expect a mastery of even the most potent flame."
As he made her practice the entire list of generic fire spells, Dumbledore told Hermione about the history of the eternal flame. Invented by the Greek witch Hestia, it could only be lit as a sign of hope in dark times - and required a great sacrifice from the caster's heart. To create Gubraithian Fire, the caster had to be gifting something with the flame.
It was the opposite of Fiendfyre, designed to consume heedless in its terrible destruction. Gubraithian Fire was intended to bring light to the darkest places, to be a source to share the gifts of warmth and light. It consumed nothing and gave itself over and over.
He did not let her attempt it that evening, and as she fell into bed, exhausted, she wondered if, when he had sent it to the giants it represented his hopes for a better world after Voldemort. What could she possibly offer on that scale to keep a fire burning forever?
She fell asleep and dreamt of fire and sacrifice. Of burning alive and of the dark coldness that followed.
A note on wands:
"As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental."
"Highly intelligent witches and wizards ought to be offered a walnut wand for trial first, because in nine cases out of ten, the two will find in each other their ideal mate. Walnut wands are often found in the hands of magical innovators and inventors; this is a handsome wood possessed of unusual versatility and adaptability. A note of caution, however: while some woods are difficult to dominate, and may resist the performance of spells that are foreign to their natures, the walnut wand will, once subjugated, perform any task its owner desires, provided that the user is of sufficient brilliance. This makes for a truly lethal weapon in the hands of a witch or wizard of no conscience, for the wand and the wizard may feed from each other in a particularly unhealthy manner."
- Pottermore
Thank you for taking the time to read my little story,
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