I had a dream that I was fine

I wasn't crazy; I was divine

- Lana del Ray, I Can Fly


She'd felt the wards shift to let her know that he was there almost an hour earlier, but she'd asked Buttons to show him in and take him to change and so forth.

Before she left her room, racked with nerves about the evening ahead (and not only because she was going to a party with Tom Riddle and his merry bunch of Pureblood fanatics) she'd glanced again at the letter Marcus had sent. She hadn't really needed to; the words were imprinted on her brain.

I love you... I'd do anything... Please let's try again... see you on New Year's Eve...

It hurt, hurting him. But how could she let herself love when she was just waiting to get her life back?

Hermione walked carefully down the steep stairs. Although the train of her dress was charmed not to trip her, she was still wary of it, and unused to wearing such fine robes. The red dress was made of fine silk chiffon, cut to recall the most classical witchy style with sheer, fluttering sleeves to the ground that looked like great wings, red devil's wings, if she raised her arms. It was scarlet red, blood red, Gryffindor red, with a beaded chest that glittered fiercely in the candlelight.

It was the sort of dress she'd never have worn before; a woman's dress. A witch's dress.

He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his beautiful face turned up. Her breath caught at the top of her throat, and she felt giddy with it, dizzy in his presence, her heartbeats reverberating through her body, as though it were pounding twice as fast as normal.

"Hi," she said softly, trying to hide the traitorously big smile that split her mouth, baring her teeth, and the exhalation of excited breath.

"Hermione," Tom said, his eyes swept up her body, darker than ever in the hall's low light. His gaze said the sort of things she knew he wouldn't say aloud in sincerity, sending her stomach skipping over itself.

She'd missed him. In the three days since he'd been gone, he'd been prowling through her waking thoughts, pushing to the forefront of her mind in the dark hours. In her mind, Harry's voice had been silent, replaced by stupid, ridiculous fantasies of Tom; Tom being good, Tom changing. Fantasies where he learnt to l-

"You look magnificent," Cerdic said, putting his head around the corner of a door. "Come and have a drink while Buttons gets the carriage ready."

"Thank you, Father."

Tom followed her into the little solar off the hall, a room hardly used, but it was obvious they'd been sitting there for a while; a half-drunk bottle of champagne and two used glasses on the little walnut table, a scroll pushed to one side.

I like that boy, Cerdic had said after Tom had left. He's rather troubled but at least he's not boring. And he thinks the world of you, my girl.

It was a strange relationship, but then Cerdic was extraordinarily tolerant - and kind - and Tom badly needed a father figure.

She accepted a glass of champagne and took a moment to appreciate the figure Tom Riddle cut in dress robes now they were in the light. Unlike most wizards, who still looked slightly ridiculous to her Muggle-raised eyes, he looked imposing, his jet-black robes setting off his dark eyes and porcelain he moved she saw the inside was faintly starry, as though a distant galaxy was stitched on the dark silk lining. It was the most flamboyant thing he'd ever worn, although he still looked conservative next to Cerdic, who was wearing a rather splendid rose-pink and gold combination that evening; he was going to a dinner party at Dumbledore's house in Devon.

"Now child, I've got a little something for you," Cerdic said, taking up a box from the mantlepiece. "Thought you ought to wear it tonight, look the part and whatnot. Girls always used to wear them to these things in my day."

Hermione opened the box and her brows almost hit her hairline in surprise. The tiara Molly had lent Fleur for her wedding had been beautiful, but this would have made that look clunky. The gold was so finely wrought it was hardly there, letting the diamonds speak for themselves; delicate and understated and quite beautiful.

"It was my mother's," he added, as though apologising for not having bought her one.

"It's beautiful," Hermione whispered, feeling embarrassing tears prick at her eyes, overcome by the kindness of this man, who had treated her as his own since the moment they'd met. "Thank you - Papa."

His own eyes crinkled with pleasure. She'd never called him that, but Daddy had been Richard Granger and Dad was too... Muggle. Too modern.

"Sweet girl," he muttered and poured out more drinks. "Better get Buttons to fix it in, he knows about -" he gestured "hair and things."

She placed the box on the table and caught Tom's dark eyes; she'd almost - just for a second - forgotten he was there. His gaze was heated with something she couldn't place, and she smiled shyly.

"How was your trip?" she asked.

"Unsuccessful."

She'd known it would be, of course. The locket he was looking for was tucked away in greedy old Hepzibah Smith's collection. One day, she reminded herself as she looked at his beautiful face, he would murder for that locket.

Hermione wondered if that was the point of no return for him. She could almost taste in him the possibility of redemption, could hardly reconcile this young man, damaged though he was, with the creature of nightmares, illogical, intractable, mad.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she lied.

"I will continue to search."

She had no reply for that; she could hardly advise him not to, beg him to give up his search and put aside his hunger for something that was supposed to be a family heirloom. She held her tongue sadly, and they talked for a while, Cerdic reminiscing about parties in his youth.

From what she could gather, the Wizarding world's grand parties were a confused mingling of traditions reminiscent of Medieval and Victorian Muggle ones. She'd researched, picking Cerdic's brain and reading, to her shame, back issues of Witch Weekly's society section. Eccentric though her false upbringing had been, Hermione was determined to pass the evening - surrounded by the enemy disguised as friends - unnoticed. She couldn't let down her guard.

Research, she told herself. It was all research on how the other half of the Wizarding world worked, research for the day, so far in the future, that she could rebuild the world.

Buttons appeared with a soft crack.

"The carriage is being ready Master Cerdic," he said with a little bow.

"Marvellous, thank you. Come on Tom, we'll go and get in while Hermione fixes that trinket in her hair."

Buttons' wrinkled face lit up at the sight of the diadem.

"Mistress's tiara, oh young Miss, Buttons will make it beautiful. Sit, sit."

"Thank you Buttons," she said, obediently sitting down as the little elf began to chant something, fiddling with her hair.

When he was finished he conjured a small mirror and held it up for her.

He'd gathered half her hair, twisting it into complex braids either side of her head. The tiara was fixed casually in front of where it was gathered, with curls tumbling down behind. Even she could see the effect was lovely; elegant and simple.

She looked the part, at least.

"Thank you."

"Buttons has taken Miss's case to the carriage."

The elf was much more confident with her these days; the familial bond settling him. He'd been delighted, Cerdic had confided in her once, to have a Mistress again. It still didn't sit well with her, but that was a fight for another day.

"This is for you," she said, handing him a small pouch she'd secreted in the hidden pocket of her dress.

His eyes widened even further as he opened the pouch to see the glittering silver coins within.

"I thought you might like to buy yourself a treat next time you go out," Hermione told him. She hadn't given him gold; that might raise questions, although the elf was often sent on errands and was solely in charge of the castle's food stores.

To her horror, huge tears welled up in his eyes as he seized hold of her legs.

"Miss Hermione is too good… Buttons would never presume…" he garbled, nearly incoherent.

She patted his little head, heart overwhelmed. She couldn't free him; he'd hidden his clothes away somewhere she'd never find them, and he wasn't hers to free, not really, but she could try and make his life better. Learn what elves really needed to improve their lot.

They were, she'd learnt, what Muggles had once called brownies, and their particular magic made them bound to serve houses. But long ago, wizards had learnt how to tie them to the house, far beyond their selfless offerings. Once, brownies had come freely, offering the clothes they came in, the only clothes that could free them, to be returned to them if they chose to leave.

Hermione intended to give them back that choice, one day.

.

.

The carriage flew unguided, drawn by the swift winged Granian horses that, once directed, would eat up the hundred-mile flight in less than an hour.

She was quiet as they flew, watching the clouds pass below. Cerdic and Tom spoke about the scroll they'd been looking at before she'd gone downstairs. She thought, again, nervously, about seeing Marcus and how desolate he'd sounded in his letter. How cruel she was, how cruel she'd need to be tonight to break him of her.

I saw a forever with you, for a moment, he'd said. Beautiful words that sickened where they intended to thrill.

And nervous, too, because she was going to Malfoy Manor, a place she'd visited before under less desirable circumstances. A night that still haunted her, though with less frequency now than before.

In fact, she reflected, she hadn't dreamt of it for months.

.

.

"Strange to think of Dumbledore having a house," Tom said, as they took off again, back into the skies.

Dropping Cerdic off had been, to say the least, an awkward moment. Albus had been immensely surprised to see Tom Riddle in the carriage, and Hermione had felt ashamed for a moment, as though he knew everything. But he'd beamed at them and wished both her and Tom a Happy New Year before waving them off.

At last, they were pulling up at Malfoy Manor, and the carriage thudded gently onto the lane in front of the gates, behind another similar one.

Tom leapt out and, to Hermione's surprise, held out a hand to help her down. It always threw her off balance when he acted chivalrously, and in her long, flowing red gown she was reluctantly grateful for his arm.

"Have you been here before?" she asked.

"No. Abraxas and I were… not close while he was at school."

Why have you been asked now, then? she wanted to say, but didn't.

It was his birthday after all, although she hadn't acknowledged it yet. There was no need to rub in the fact that he'd been something of an outcast in his own house for years.

The great gates stood open, and the driveway up to the house was decorated with floating silvery lights. A frost - that certainly hadn't existed beyond the great gates - laced the yew hedges, the ground crunching underfoot. As they passed through the gates, a bowing elf checked their invitation and took their night bags.

"Just ask for your rooms when you is ready," the elf squeaked.

"This is all a bit… er… " she floundered as they walked past one of the white peacocks.

"Malfoyish?" Tom suggested, amused.

She grinned and relaxed. He was nervous too, she realised, although he was hiding it well and, as strange and unexpected as it was, she was glad he was there.

They followed some other wizards and witches up to the house, where the great entrance doors stood open, music and laughter wafting out.

"Show time," she muttered, and to her surprise Tom offered his arm.

Abraxas and Sophia were inside, standing beside who could only be the senior Malfoys, welcoming guests.

"Hermione!" Sophia greeted enthusiastically. "Oh you look wonderful. Hello Tom," she kissed his cheek airily, and sent Hermione a very pointed look.

"Dearborn, you look splendid - Father, Mother, this is Hermione Dearborn, and Tom Riddle."

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," the tall, blond man said, shaking Tom's hand. "Tiberius Malfoy."

To Hermione's embarrassment, he bent over her hand and kissed it.

Mrs Malfoy, as it turned out, was French, and Hermione vaguely remembered that she had been born Theia Millefeuille from her intensive Pureblood preparation over the summer. She spoke to her son in her mother-tongue, and expected the same of Sophia.

Grateful for endless holidays to her owngrand-mère's house in the Auvergne, Hermione dutifully kissed both her cheeks in greeting and murmured enchantée, Madame.

Hermione could sense, although he gave no indication, that this sort of behaviour wound Tom up. She supposed that, unlike her, his Muggle education hadn't involved languages. In fact, although her French was hesitant and unpracticed it was at a conversational level, and she could follow what Mrs Malfoy was saying to Abraxas and Sophia, while Mr Malfoy made small talk with Tom before the next guests arrived. (It was largely acerbic comments, and criticism of her guests. She was, Hermione decided, not an especially pleasant woman).

She left most of the small talk to Tom. After-all she had no real interest in making a good impression, as much as she liked Sophia, and as charming as she found Abraxas. That said, Tiberius Malfoy seemed rather keener to make her acquaintance than she'd anticipated - another reminder of the insidious power of money. He had, it was clear, heard plenty about Tom from his son and treated him with a combination of mild deference and feigned interest.

"Come and get a drink. You're the last of my people, so I'm off welcoming duty," Sophia whispered after a few minutes, and they slipped away towards one of the many hovering trays of drinks.

"I loved your present so much, we hired him for this evening!" the blonde girl told Hermione, practically dragging her and Tom over to the other side of the Malfoy's ante-hall.

Reluctantly, she posed with Tom for a photograph, and hoped to all hell that the pictures would be kept in the family and never looked at because he'd caught her smiling at Ancha and a photograph of a jubilant Hermione Granger standing with Tom Riddle wasn't exactly something she wanted to surface in the future.

Not that it ever had, of course. Draco Malfoy would have been much nicer to her at school if he'd seen such a thing - although, she supposed, in her red robes, with goblin wrought diamonds in her hair, she was hardly recognisable.

.

.

It was an incredible party. A celebration of wealth and power and excess, that translated into something that wasn't elegant enough to be chilly, but not overly exuberant and tasteless like so much in the Wizarding world.

The ballroom was simply enormous, and Hermione wondered if it was enchanted to enlarge when needed. She'd have to look it up, or perhaps ask Sophia later.

Sophia had done some wonderful trick with the seating arrangement for the feast that preceded the dancing that had put Hermione far away from Marcus. She was sat, in fact, in between Tom and Arcturus Black, who she'd met briefly at Slughorn's dinners but never properly spoken to. With Ancha on the other side of Tom, and Sophia and Abraxas further down the table, it was a merry enough gathering. Other familiar faces mingled with strangers that she took to be Abraxas's school-friends; confident and sleek young men and women in various levels of finery.

Dinner was predictably magnificent; scallops and then bouillabaisse to start. Swiftly followed by great roasted geese served on solid gold platters, piles of exotic vegetables, cheese soufflés, and the inevitable spiced pumpkin amid a veritable array of dishes that would have probably turned even Ron's sympathies in the Malfoy's favour.

Tom, Hermione noticed, really liked his food. She'd picked up on it before, when he'd visited her at the castle, but she was surprised at the earthiness of his appreciation. It was a terribly human, terribly boyish aspect of him that seemed quite at odds with any previous image she'd had.

"This food," he murmured at one point, "is even better than Hogwarts's."

"It is, much better," she agreed, merry with champagne. "I actually find Hogwarts food a bit… heavy. It's as though they've never heard of salad."

"Salad!" he said, appalled. "Why would you want salad when you could eat… bouillabaisse?"

He hesitated over the word and her heart did that irritating flip that it seemed to do whenever he was unsure or out of his element.

"I ate a lot of French food growing up," she told him. "It's my favourite."

"Yes, you were born there weren't you?" he commented and they both stiffened.

She'd never told him that. She was absolutely sure of it.

"You've been doing your homework," she said after an awkward pause.

"You were a mystery," he replied, as though that were an acceptable explanation, and Hermione realised she'd never, never been more grateful for Dumbledore's exquisitely comprehensive backstory.

"Well I've done mine too," she told him, and narrowed her eyes at his damnable ring. He'd stopped wearing it, but tonight it gleamed darkly on his left hand. "I know who you're descended from."

"We should talk about this later," he hissed and she was amazed at the savage blaze of anger in his dark eyes.

"Don't be such a hypocrite," she hissed back. "I told you - if you try and work out what you imagine to be my secrets I will find out yours."

They ignored each other for the rest of the meal, and Hermione found herself surprisingly enchanted by Arcturus Black. He was not only the only Slytherin she'd ever met with a really good sense of humour, but, with his black hair and glittering grey eyes, he reminded her of Sirius.

After dinner, Mr Malfoy stood and announced the engagement, to whoops and cheers. Once they'd properly toasted Sophia and Abraxas, with yet more champagne - pink this time in honour of the occasion, the tables rose from the ground and floated back a few feet, clearing a space in the middle.

"Duelling," Arcturus said. "Of course."

He rolled his eyes and poured Hermione and then himself another glass of wine.

A protective bubble slowly expanded around the audience and two exceptionally flamboyantly dressed people, a man and a woman, walked out onto the cleared area to shouts of encouragement and cheers.

It was all rather Medieval, but Hermione watched them closely as they warmed up.

"Fifteen galleons on Toothill," the girl next to Arcturus offered.

"I'll take that bet," Hermione said, although she disapproved of gambling in principle - still, she could see that the woman, who'd been announced as Cliantha Orpington, was holding back. "Hermione Dearborn," she introduced.

"Dearborn… alright. Aalia Shafiq."

"It's a bet," Hermione said, grinning and shook her hand.

She wasn't smiling, twenty minutes later, when Cliantha Orpington maimed her opponent severely, removing his wand arm in a bloody spray to cheers that shook the rafters and Hermione accepted her winnings rather reluctantly.

"When we fight," she told Tom, "you are not to remove any limbs."

His face lit up and their argument was momentarily forgotten.

"Hermione," he said, and she could see in the candlelight that his eyes, which she'd always thought were dark, were navy, a blue so dark it was almost midnight, blue like the sky long after sunset, "I would never remove your limbs. They're much too pretty."

"You're drunk," she muttered, embarrassed, and he smiled.

"I am, a little. So are you. And you're going to dance with me."

"Against my better judgement," she agreed.

"Why are you so difficult?"

She shrugged. "Isn't that what interests you?"

He hissed in frustration and she smirked triumphantly, turning back to Arcturus.

"So you're the nice Black," she said, accepting that yes, perhaps she had had rather an adequate amount of champagne and wine.

He grinned back at her.

"If you want me to be," he offered flirtatiously.

She cocked her head. It was tempting to flirt back; he was beautiful and he was funny and - but -

but she'd be doing it to wind up the boy on her other side, to demonstrate that whatever checks he made, whatever he thought or wanted, she was independent. And Hermione was too honest, too shy from hurting one person, to do that again.

She wanted Tom Riddle and she had an awful, crashing, sickening feeling of inevitability about it, about the fierce thingthat connected them.

So instead, Hermione rolled her eyes at Arcturus Black, and, after Sophia and Abraxas had followed their parents onto the floor, she accepted Tom's hand and let him lead her out.

He held her tightly, angrily, at first, as the classical band moved into their second song. Then gradually, as the quickstep drew to a close, he relaxed and the dance began to feel less like a textbook demonstration of the correct steps.

"Calm down," she murmured.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You're furious with me, and you have no right to be. It's not my fault the Gaunt family connection to Slytherin is documented. Back off."

"You're right," he said, around ten bars later. "I'm sorry. Hermione -"

But whatever he was going to say was cut off by Abraxas and Sophia as the song drew to a close.

"Swap?" Abraxas asked, as though he were daring Tom, and Hermione chanced a little smile up at the dark haired boy.

"Yes, alright," she agreed, and, before either man realised what she was doing, she'd taken Sophia's hands, giggling, and swept the other girl away.

"I don't think that's what he meant," Sophia told her as their steps changed into a waltz.

Hermione laughed. "Not at all, but then I don't really like wizards treating me as though they have a say in my doings either. And Tom is cross with me."

"Why is Tom cross with you?" Sophia, who was, to be fair, taller, took over the lead.

"Because I told him I knew who he was descended from," Hermione said.

She trusted Sophia. She hadn't really noticed that before, but she did. And she was tired of secrets.

"You mean that he's the Heir of Slytherin?" the other girl asked, carefully.

"Yes."

"Well, no wonder he's cross. I think he wanted to be Mr Perfect for you and now you've gone and shattered that."

Hermione didn't say, as she might have, that Tom had killed someone in front of her so it wasn't as though he were really hiding anything. Instead she asked, "Why do you know?"

"That's how he won around the Slytherins… he took Abraxas and a couple of others down into the Chamber - you can't tell anyone this, I know you won't but be careful. Someone died Hermione. It was an accident, I think. He doesn't talk about it. But anyway, Tom had said he was the heir, and no one believed him - I mean you wouldn't, would you? So he showed them… Made them all stand there in front of the basilisk - there's a basilisk in there, that's what killed the girl - with their eyes shut in silence and then told it to turn around and they looked and - well. You can imagine, I suppose. They didn't know it was there, just heard him hissing."

"Merlin," Hermione breathed, following Sophia off the dance floor as the song ended. "He's so…"

She couldn't finish the sentence, because what he was was something else. Something she couldn't express. A potential and a past caught up together.

"It's not that bad. He didn't deliberately set it on them. And they were awful to him; Abraxas feels positively blue about it these days I think."

And then there they were; Marcus and Claire, right in front of her and Hermione paused, awkwardly.

"Hermione," Marcus breathed out, his voice husky and his eyes raking over her.

She feigned polite enthusiasm.

"Marcus, Claire. Happy New Year."

"Yes, you too. We're just going to dance, aren't we Marcus?" the blonde said, with narrowed eyes.

Hermione stepped aside and let them pass, avoiding Marcus's eyes as she did.

Not very Gryffindor, said the Harry voice.

You've been quiet, she thought back.

"Well," Sophia said sarcastically, "that was warm. Friendly, really."

"He wrote to me…" she replied, glumly. "I feel awful."

"Don't be so ridiculous. It's not your fault you're so appealing. Come on, let's go and chat up the French Minister for Magic."

.

.

"I suppose you thought that was terribly funny," he said, and she stiffened. She'd gone outside to admire the garden, lit up beautifully with more silvery lights, and to get some air. There were lots of people in the distance, admiring some sort of magical display, possibly involving animal, but the terrace itself had been blissfully empty.

"I did, rather," she agreed.

"Hermione," he said, gently pulling her around to face him.

"Happy birthday, Tom," she whispered, like a fool.

And then he was kissing her again, and it was far far far far better than any champagne. Heady and sharp and it cut straight through her, sending her mind spinning into orbit, and perhaps tomorrow she'd blame the champagne as she'd blamed adrenaline days earlier, but right now she melted against him, and there was nothing - nothing - but Tom.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured at last, as he pulled back.

"So are you," she confessed, flushed and dazed by him, "Whatever else you are," she added, bitterly.

He sighed in frustration, holding her against him, and rested his head on hers.

"I can't reconcile you," she said after a moment. "There's this you - irresistible - and some other you that's… you're not a good man and I don't… I can't fathom it. How can you be both?"

He didn't say anything for a long time, just held her, the heat of his body no real combatant for the icy air as the last moments of December faded into January.

"You are the single shining light in a world of hideousness," he said at last, his warm breath carrying the low words to her ear, and down they went, burning through her insides and sending her reeling.

Once more Hermione turned her face up to meet his, pulling him down to meet her, and she kissed him. She tasted his desire on her tongue and she felt powerful, a surge of desire so strong it was like a rollercoaster, like riding the dragon all over again, heady and terrifying and exhilarating.

"I knew it," came the bitter voice and she pulled away in shame.

Marcus.

"I knew it. Hermione - how could you?"

His kind, warm brown eyes were desolate, his face crumpled with sorrow. Broken. What fresh power was this, that she had, to destroy someone so completely?

What had she done?

She started to reply but Marcus just shook his head.

"I love you," he told her. "I love you."

And then he was gone, turning on his heel, and she was left with Tom, outside on the terrace in the starlight.

"Let's go and dance," she suggested, as fireworks exploded in the distance.

At least, she thought, at least with him the damage I do will only be to myself.

.

.


Thank you to my dear friend TequilaMockingbirdWrites for betaing. Any mistakes are entirely her fault, probably.

(Before you get too angry with Marcus - remember that now Hermione has got an excuse to be with Tom, because she thinks she can't hurt him! Yay?)

And thank you all for your lovely messages over the last couple of weeks - most ever for a chapter! My dissertation is done, and here is the evidence! Please continue to review.

You might have noticed I changed the name... I hope you like it. Let me know. It's from Hermione's first scene in The Winter's Tale:

You put me off with limber vows; but I,
Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oaths,
Should yet say, Sir, no going.

Please review?