And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.
T.S. Eliot - The Dry Salvages [Four Quartets]
Tom watched the drama unveil though the stacks with a barely concealed smirk.
Everything was unfolding just as he'd planned.
Hermione Dearborn was openly, if quietly, having a go at a Muggleborn student several years younger than her. Not that many people were watching (it was the library after all) but there were enough to see, and therefore to gossip, and gossip in the castle spread faster than Fiendfyre.
He predicted by breakfast the following day at least one person would tell him Hermione Dearborn had cursed a Mudblood in the library.
Claire Hughes was about as ordinary as they came, in his eyes. She hadn't even been able to plan a proper bit of revenge until Tom had gone in her head and tweaked it to suit himself as well.
Honestly, who even did their own dirty work? How someone was so extraordinarily insipid as to not predict a witch like Dearborn would put some kind of tracing spell on the items once she'd realised they were going missing from that weird bag she had, Tom couldn't fathom.
He'd manipulated her into using a Mudblood fifth year to take the things, so Dearborn would throw a fit – ideally in public, as she was now doing – and be cemented even further into the niche created for her by Samhain…
Dearborn's thick, dark hair, which she'd tried to tame in a plait that was rapidly coming undone suddenly looked like it was actually sparking. He leant forward eagerly, trying to hear.
She threw her hands up and – yes that was definitely a spark in her hair. Was that normal? He'd noticed her hair tended to get bushier with her moods but it was literally crackling. And there she was, storming out of the Library. Brilliant.
The Mudblood Gryffindor (who'd have been under an Imperius, if Claire had done her job properly) would have no idea why a Seventh Year she'd never even spoken to would be accusing her of stealing her homework in the Library.
It was so simple, so breathtakingly easy, to destroy someone's reputation.
A few pieces set in play, and they'd do it all by themselves.
.
.
He followed her out of the library, unable to resist watching her when she was so riled up.
Her power roiled off her when she was like this and it felt glorious. No one else seemed to notice but he could feel her. Like a storm lashing him with warm rain, or a fire after being out in the icy cold.
She was majestic.
Tom was obsessed.
He trailed her out of the castle, staying far enough back that she wouldn't see him unless she turned around. Eventually, she stopped by the shore of the lake and he watched, in silent fascination, as she completely lost her temper. He wanted to rip her open and look to see if there really was fire inside. Did flames dance through her blood?
If he ripped her open, would her secrets be burned into her skin on the inside? Would she tell him then?
She hurled fireballs out, sending them crashing through the icy surface of the lake or bouncing across it for about fifteen minutes and he watched, fascinated because wasn't she beautiful like this, elemental almost, like some sort of mythical fucking witch of old, and he could feel her magic and her rage and it was amazing and like nothing and no one else and he couldn't tear himself away.
He watched, even as the snow started to fall again, and watched until she froze halfway through the motion and said aloud, her voice ringing like a bell,
"Of course! You idiot, Hermione."
And then she was gone, hurrying back to the castle and he'd dived rather inelegantly behind a tree so she wouldn't see him, and he'd lost her.
After the Yule Decorating Incident he'd been convinced she'd put a spell on him – or someone had on her behalf. He'd actually taken a bezoar (just in case) although he'd deny it till the world burned if anyone asked him.
He'd even dreamt about her two nights previously, so pathetic, so mundane of him, after that diabolical afternoon spent conjuring fucking fairies and sparkly things and he'd had to literally scrub himself raw in the shower afterwards, shaking and confused because the boy he'd once been would have literally killed for an afternoon like that, for the Christmases she spoke of in vague terms and –
He was stronger than that.
Those things were for ordinary people.
But now he knew how to manipulate her. He'd traced the language of her body, how her eyes softened, how her low voice warmed up, how her cheeks turned pink, how her words became open doors inside her when she thought he was vulnerable.
He knew how to get at her now. And if he told her enough secrets, maybe she'd tell him hers. It was almost disappointing that the poor orphan stories undid her, but then it wasn't just the stories, it was the truths that turned the cool dark eyes whiskey warm. Tom walked back to the library, alone, wondering how much truth he'd have to spill to slice her open.
Truth could be a knife to cut someone open, but – she could just as easily turn it back around on him and if he wanted her to bleed out her secrets he'd have to cut himself first.
But still – progress.
.
.
.
She surprised him as she always did.
The rumour mill buzzed slightly Hermione Dearborn cursed Enid MacMillan in the library!
Isn't she a Mudblood?
I heard Dearborn won't talk to people unless –
Stuck up bitch, actually
But then
Apologised
Really nice, she said
Covering up?
MacMillan didn't think so –
Someone else, the note said. Setting you up, she'd written. I apologise profusely.
So well-mannered, they whispered. Beautiful and so clever.
His insides clenched. Clever little witch.
But some still had doubts. And that would be enough.
He eyed Claire Hughes at dinner the day after, as she sat white faced and eyes burning and he wanted to carve her idiocy into her skin so everyone would see it, see how unworthy she was to sit next to Hermione Dearborn, who burned next to her and met his gaze with peony cheeks that told him the blood was rushing beneath the skin, glowing skin, and he raged inside because what had she done to him, what was she doing to him.
.
.
.
Hermione was furious with herself as she hurried back up from the lake, not feeling the cold snow settling in her hair and turning to water. She'd lost control of her temper, which rarely happened these days, especially without Ron here to wind her up, and fallen into a stupid – and, in retrospect, obvious trap.
Of course someone had been using a proxy to play tricks on her. She'd just followed the spell, which lit up the girl in a red glow only visible to her. She hadn't even known the girl's name.
Stupid stupid stupid. She was having a terrible week but still. Stupid.
She'd assumed it was Greengrass. It seemed more likely now. Afterall, the girl was clever and powerful and apparently jealous of her, at least so Claire said.
Clearly, whoever it was, wanted to make Hermione look like a total lunatic (which she probably had).
Damage control, then.
Dear Enid,
I'm so sorry about this evening. Someone has been playing some petty tricks on me, taking things from my bag, so I put a Thief Tracking spell on it and it showed you.
In retrospect, I realise this is highly unlikely and I must ask if it's possible you have been under an spell or curse or are missing any Time in the past few weeks? I think someone was setting us both up!
However, I suspect now I've made quite the spectacle of myself, whoever thinks this is droll will stop using you but I am terribly sorry you've been caught up in what is probably something very childish.
If there's ever anything I can do to repay you for the unpleasantness this afternoon, please let me know. Again, I apologise profusely – have a wonderful Christmas holiday and best wishes for the New Year.
Yours,
Hermione Dearborn
P.S. I do hope you like chocolate; this is my favourite bar from Honeydukes.
It was lucky the weekend before had been a Hogsmeade weekend for the Seventh Years, she reflected. She'd gone with Marcus, wandering around in the snow hand-in-hand, and now she had quite a good stock of chocolate, which always made apologies a little sweeter.
And some lovely dress robes for Slughorn's party.
She tied the parcel onto Pevensie's leg and stroked his beautiful face lightly.
"Just to Gryffindor tower please, dearest. If you come to my room when you're back I'll have some treats for you later."
.
.
"Happy Birthday!" Hermione said, poking her sleeping friend. It had been some time since she'd been into the girls' dormitory, but every time she went in she was grateful again for her isolated little room.
"Thank you, dearest," Sophia muttered, pulling the covers over her head. Then she sat up suddenly. "My birthday! Yes!"
"I brought you some coffee, and a little something," she said, handing her a prettily wrapped box.
"Coffee. You're an angel, truly. Oh wicked mother of Morganna, I'm eighteen. Pass me my presents."
"Wait for us!" Ancha exclaimed, sitting up and wiping her eyes. She shook Claire and the rest of the Seventh Year girls awake and they piled on to Sophia's bed.
"There's only one I really want to open before breakfast," Sophia said quietly. "I think – is there one there from Abraxas?"
They looked through the labels and Claire passed Sophia a box.
"He's home for Christmas now. In his letter he said he hoped I'd be wearing it when I see him tomorrow night for the party – I – I think – "
"Oh Merlin, really?" Ancha breathed.
Hermione looked from one to the other and it wasn't until she saw Sophia's fingers were uncharacteristically trembling that the knut dropped.
The blonde girl's sharp grey eyes were soft with unshed tears as she read the card and then opened the little velvet box.
A simply enormous emerald, surrounded by diamonds, sat glinting smugly in the box, and Hermione felt uncharitable that her first thought was each to their own and her second was typical Malfoys but then she looked back at Sophia's face, and really there was nothing to do but rejoice.
She looked up to gague the others' reactions. Ancha seemed unphased, winking at Hermione and excitedly exclaiming put it on!
Claire wouldn't meet her eyes, yet again, on the other hand. In fact, she'd been uncharacteristically quiet.
"Isn't it beautiful, Claire?" she asked.
"It's splendid. I'm so happy for you, Sophia. Congratulations."
She still didn't look at Hermione.
Happiness looked different to different people, she supposed. And in an odd way, the ring suited Sophia, who was so chic and elegant, by wizarding standards at least, that she carried off the gigantic ring.
And, well, that's what you got for marrying into a family that thought white peacocks were a stylish lawn accessory.
Girlish squealing over, and a few more presents opened, it was time for the rest of the girls to get dressed. As the others moved away, Hermione tied up and vanished the wrapping paper before standing to move away, but Sophia took her hand and stopped her.
"It was sweet of you to come and wake me, dearest. Thank you." She smiled, eyes soft and warm and Hermione felt a rush of genuine affection for the young woman. She'd never have pegged Lucius Malfoy's mother for a friend, but fate was a funny old thing. She continued in a hushed voice, "Look – don't worry about Claire. But… maybe we should have a proper talk? At break? No, damn, there's a Prefect meeting."
Hermione nodded. "We'll work it out." She raised her voice, "I'll wait for you in the Common Room for breakfast, girls. Don't take long, I'm ravenous."
.
.
.
With the extra workload and Ravenclaws' predilection for getting their holiday homework done the night it was set, rather than on the night before it was due like Harry and Ron had always done, Hermione didn't get a chance to talk to Sophia that day. Instead, the headed to the library together that evening, settling into a secluded nook, with a mutual, if unspoken agreement that they'd talk after they'd worked.
But Tom Riddle dropped his books onto the table soon after they arrived. Hermione eyed him warily. In the few days that had passed since their afternoon of fun (which she'd resolutely ignored as best she could) he'd been relentlessly normal with her.
Normal, for Tom, meant hiding behind the façade of bright, handsome Head Boy – a façade so convincing to their peers and teachers that no one would associate him with Lord Voldemort when he returned after whatever it was he'd spend the next two and a half decades.
"Good evening, ladies," he murmured, sending Sophia his most polished Head Boy smile, Hermione noted. "And Happy Birthday, Selwyn."
"Thank you, Tom."
"Dearborn, I assume you've started your Potions research?"
"I might have done," Hermione acknowledged.
He examined her thoughtfully, and she felt a pang of regret that he couldn't stay this way; that he wouldn't settle for just be an extremely engaging and intelligent and handsome wizard. It was such a waste.
"Any clues?" he asked.
"Well, here's a Riddle, Riddle. Whatever gets you high will always bring you down, but while you're there – you're golden."
"That's hardly a riddle. Hardly even a clue" he scoffed, but he rocked back on his chair thoughtfully. "Solid or liquid gold?"
"No questions. Now be quiet and let me finish my translation."
She looked back down at her work and was pleased to have fifteen minutes quiet work before he pushed a piece of parchment at her.
Do you need to get lucky, then, Dearborn?
Hermione's mouth dropped open in surprise. Not because he'd worked out that she was going to brew (and write a dissertation on the relationship of the ingredients, their efficiency, effects, and ethical use) of Felix Felicis, but because he was flirting with her.
She glanced at him, and was gratified to catch a hint of pink around his cheeks. More mortifying was Sophia's smirk from across the table as she pretended to read her Charms textbook.
"What have you picked?" she asked him quietly. In the bright, warm light of the library she thought his eyes looked almost green. His dark hair fell with that effortless grace across his forehead and she sighed with irritation.
Did he use products? Or was it just some genetic miracle that despite being an orphan who'd probably never had had a decent haircut it was always flawless?
And did it ever look messy –
"I'm inventing my own, of course. An antidote that will work for all magical snake venoms."
"An antidote?"
His angelic expression was wholly unconvincing, especially because it was immediately followed by a very smug smile.
"You're distracting me," he muttered. "Do your work. We've only got one day left."
She scowled at him, torn between amusement and irritation, but obeyed.
Talking to him was too perplexing, anyway. It was better when he was quiet. At least then he contributed to the room in a decorative manner, without any confusing feelings of pity (sometimes) or academic admiration (less often), or friendship (worryingly).
.
.
"You and that boy," Sophia commented as they walked back towards the tower.
Hermione sighed and didn't reply. There was no point pretending he hadn't been flirting with her in the library, after all.
After a few minutes walking quietly, Sophia pulled her into a classroom and warded the door with silencing spells.
"Hermione, look, you're fantastic. You're probably my favourite witch in this castle, so I'm telling you this as a friend. It's all very well to disapprove of Muggleborns… lots of people do – most of my family included. They undermine our traditions and bring their misplaced judgement and morality and try and apply it to our world and that's difficult.
"But be careful. People gossip. Samhain, that Gryffindor in the Library… You're getting a reputation. I know it's a load of rubbish, and if anything you're a bit of a bleeding heart. But if you're not with Riddle because of his blood status I think you're making a mistake."
Hermione stared, gobsmacked. There were no words that could properly convey how mistaken her friend was, how utterly and completely wrong.
She couldn't even laugh at the knife-twistingly bitter irony.
"I'm only saying this because I've got a feeling Marcus might, you know, want to follow in Abraxas's footsteps as it were. His mother wrote to me and asked about you."
"What?" Hermione sat down in shock. "We've only known each other for three months."
Sophia shrugged. "It's not that unusual. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I think he may have said something to Claire, and that's why she's being so rude."
"This is going to sound mad, but I think she's been stealing my things. I thought it was Greengrass but actually it more makes sense if Claire… you know my things have been going missing and then turning up again? Well I enchanted my bag to show me who was taking stuff and it was that Gryffindor, that's why I lost my temper. Well, that was a tipping point anyway… But obviously it wasn't her, she barely knew who I was, she'd been imperiused or something vile, I suppose. Merlin, this is such a mess. I don't want to marry anyone, for one thing!"
Sophia sighed and sat down beside her.
"What a mess," she agreed. "Just… I can't believe I'm saying this because he's my cousin and you're a fantastic match. Well-bred, beautiful, clever, and rich. But you should probably break things off with Marcus before he gets carried away with how suitable you are and asks you to marry him."
"He's been so sweet to me. I feel like I've lead him on. What happened between him and Claire that's made her hate me so?"
"They weren't together, not officially. I don't know the gory details, naturally, but I think he had a dalliance with her last year and she fell in love with him – no she'd loved him for years, actually – but his family probably wouldn't approve so whatever it was was pretty secret. Then the summer came and they just stopped and then you came along."
"Poor Claire. This may surprise you but I don't actually give a fig about someone's blood. I'm wary of Tom for a lot of other reasons, including his stance on the matter, but that's not one of them. And if Marcus liked Claire but not enough to openly court her because her mother's a Muggleborn then he ought to be ashamed of himself."
"I agree. She was brought up with our ways, by and large, so what does it matter? Oh doxies, it's almost curfew. Let's not get detention and have to miss the party! Isn't your father coming?"
.
.
.
The last night of term arrived with another flurry of snow, and, for Hermione, it was astonishing that a summer and a whole term could have passed without seeing Harry, Ron or Ginny. And yet also as though it had been an entire lifetime since she'd seen them.
Besides, she didn't have time to worry about whether she was being disloyal to their memories by making friends in the past because as soon as her last class finished, she practically ran up the stairs to Dumbledore's quarters.
He'd invited her to tea at the end of her Transfiguration class and to welcome her "father" before the party, as would only be fitting and normal, and added there is something we'd like to discuss with you.
Naturally, she'd spent the rest of the day worrying about that something.
"Father!" Hermione exclaimed, excitedly, remembering not to use his first name in case anyone could overhear. "You look tremendous."
And he did. Thick dark hair vaguely tamed into a respectable style and eyes sparkling with mischief.
"I've been in Edinburgh, gallivanting a little too hard. Don't feel tremendous. Funny how much there is to catch up on when you start seeing people after so long. Now, let me look at you. Superb. Come, come, sit down."
"How was your journey?" she said, gratefully relaxing into one of Albus cushy red armchairs.
"Fine, fine. I apparated from Edinburgh to Hogsmeade and they sent a carriage because of the snow. Wouldn't have had that treatment as a young thing – still, it's good to see the old place!"
"I'll bet. Has anything changed drastically?"
"Not a bit. Not even a new ghost as far's I can see."
They chattered on, catching up over tea and cake.
"Are you looking forward to the party?" Hermione asked. "Professor Slughorn is certainly looking forward to seeing you. He's mentioned it thirteen times in the past two weeks. I kept a tally."
He roared with laughter.
"Horace always has interesting people at these things, so yes, suppose I am."
Albus, who'd been quiet for the most part, allowing them to catch up, interjected before she could speak again.
"Time is pressing, Hermione, so I am afraid we must cut to the chase."
"Yes, indeed. Thing is, girl, I'm not without enemies," Cerdic said, placing his teacup down on its saucer and picking up a biscuit.
Hermione frowned in surprise. She hadn't known what to expect, exactly, but this wasn't it.
"There have been threats," Albus explained, without actually explaining anything as usual.
"They've heard about the gold," Cerdic added, dipping his biscuit into the tea. "They want to know the recipe to turn base metals into gold… I can't give it to them because that's not how alchemy works, but no one ever understands that. Blasted pest."
"They've made threats against you, Hermione. We're not too concerned about those at present: you are safe here, and I believe you are more than capable of looking after yourself as it is. However, it's possible someone will cast a spell to identify you as Cerdic's daughter. I'm sure you will agree, that could lead to some inconvenient circumstances."
"Thought we'd make it official and whatnot."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand?" she said, baffled by the double act, by the huge leap in logic, and as to what they were actually proposing.
"I'd like to adopt you, child. There's an old spell… families used to use it when they swapped their Squib children for Muggleborns I think. Rotten, really."
Adoption! This was unexpected.
"Am I not a bit old for adoption?" she asked.
They laughed.
"It's certainly not traditional," Dumbledore offered. "But one might venture that there is little traditional about your situation, Hermione. Being the binder will also make me officially your Godfather, as it were."
"Besides, I'd like to," Cerdic said.
And that was that, really.
"You are truly the kindest man," she said to Cerdic. "Are you sure about this? You could still meet someone and have children, not some lost girl you hardly know, who's been foisted upon you by circumstances."
He turned uncharacteristically serious and took her hand.
"Very few people are lucky enough to choose their children. You are a brave and clever young woman, and I greatly admire your fortitude. I am already proud to call you daughter."
She nodded, a little overwhelmed at the turn her afternoon had taken, and a little tearful.
.
.
Albus made a cut in Cerdic's palm with his wand. He held it to her and she took it, tentatively.
"I, Cerdic, of House Dearborn, welcome this child into my family. May her blood be of my blood and her magic be of my magic. I recognise her as my kin and heir."
There was a golden glow and she felt a sudden sense of belonging; it was done.
Family.
.
.
Tom's plans always massively suck, you guys. In the books there are literally a zillion sensible and efficient ways to kill Harry that Voldemort doesn't take, and I feel like that sort of applies to his whole life. He's fantastically clever and talented but he's not super full of common sense.
I didn't edit this properly for typos and stuff because I was too keen to put it up so if you spot anything please let me know.
SERIOUS QUESTION: I'm considering re-titling this. Knowledge is Power (the translation) is like the underlying theme under discussion in this fic… buuuuuuut I feel like I've outgrown latin titles/everyone's started using them (? or I just noticed that?) and there's another fic I saw with a really similar title so. Yeah. Thoughts?!
As always thank you for your continued support. I try and reply to every review but I think I miss some accidentally when I go back. But thank you thank you thank you – I love you all so much, please keep letting me know what you think.
Guess what colour Hermione's wearing to the party!
A
